


Against My Better Judgment

by shibarifan01



Category: Agent Pendergast Series - Douglas Preston & Lincoln Child, Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Edgeplay, M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Restraints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-12 06:30:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/808378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shibarifan01/pseuds/shibarifan01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finch gets reunited with someone from his past who shows up as a number; Reese is not too happy with the situation. Pendergast is in danger and it will be up to Finch and Reese to remedy the situation. In the meantime a dire situation develops with Alistair Wesley and John comes to grips with what makes him tick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> This is a crossover fic because John Reese has always somewhat reminded me of Aloysius Pendergast in some aspects; Pendergast also has some facets of his personality which scream Harold Finch. If you do not know Pendergast, make sure you read the books by Preston and Child - they're absolutely wonderful... and conversely, if you're a Pendergast afficionado who does not know Person of Interest, I cannot urge you enough to watch the show.
> 
> Please be indulgent - it is my first fic ever and English is not my mother tongue. It is the first chapter of a multi-chapter piece - though I am not certain how often I will be able to update it.
> 
> Very tame for the time being, trying to keep in character throughout - Pinch and Rinch eventually, though you may get a headache squinting to find it at the beginning. Ends up being quite angsty toward the end so you have been warned, but all's well that ends well, for those of us who like a happy ending.

If the clicking of Bear’s nails on the stone floor hadn’t advertised Reese’s arrival, Harold Finch would have wondered who was coming up the library stairs, whistling. Whistling???

Reese reached the landing, turned and walked down the corridor, Bear in tow, a cardboard holder with two cups in one hand and a newspaper in the other.

“Good morning Mr. Reese”, said Finch.

“Good morning Finch – and a lovely morning it is!” said Reese. “You should go for a walk, it might do you good,” he added, leaving one of the cups on Finch’s desk with a flourish.

Lifting his eyes, Finch replied with an exasperated sigh, “Mr. Reese, in my physical condition, aimless perambulation is not my forte, as you can well imagine, however lovely the weather may be!”

“Well, just go sit on a park bench somewhere, Finch, take in a bit of sun, who knows, you might like it.”

“Hmphhh”, was the only sound that could be heard from behind the bank of monitors, followed a few seconds later by a “What is that Mr. Reese?” a hand lifting the cup high in the air and jiggling it slightly so Reese could see it, the grimace still on Finch’s face.

“Well Finch, they were all out of Sencha green so I took it upon myself to choose something else, I thought you might want to throw caution to the winds and I had them prepare you a white tea with lavender and Concord grape. The barista recommended it highly.”

“I have no doubt Mr. Reese, but you know me, I’m a creature of habit and throwing caution to the wind does not sit well with me. As for the tea, it tastes like a cross between perfume and dishwater, not that I’ve ever tasted dishwater, come to think of it, but I’m sure your heart was in the right place.”

“My heart’s always in the right place when it comes to you Finch”, said Reese, his voice dropping an octave or so, which brought Finch’s eyebrows very much near the top of his considerable forehead. “Well, thank you Mr. Reese. Are you coming down with a cold?” Finch added, nonplussed.

Reese just barked a laugh and turned towards the window to check the bustling city below, which gave Finch the opportunity to look at him unobserved. He was always a bit overwhelmed by the sheer physicality of the man: the tall frame, the wide shoulders, the steel-grey hair.

Feeling that Reese was about to turn, he quickly averted his eyes and returned his attention to one of his screens. “Have we got a new number Finch?”

“Mr. Reese, as I have told you innumerable times, when we have a new number, I call you. I don’t really know why you persist in coming here every morning even when we do not have a number – I’m sure there are many other things you might want to be doing with your time.”

“Ah, Finch, you know I miss you when I don’t get my morning fix of your charming presence…”

“Mr. Reese, really! Have you nothing better to do than to try and rattle me? Haven’t you got a rifle to clean or a rocket-launcher to dismantle? Don’t fret, I’ll call you if we do get a number! Here’s a suggestion, why don’t you spend the day with the lovely Miss Morgan, I’m sure she’d love your company, she seems quite partial to those blue eyes of yours.”

Finch’s ear tips pinked a bit; he was not used to throwing around the type of flirty banter in which Reese seemed to excel, but he nevertheless liked to try his hand at it once in a while. Which brought a bright smile to Reese’s face. He was about to serve Finch a witty repartee when the stillness behind the computer brought him short.

Finch seemed frozen in place, his eyes fixed on one of the screens.

“Finch!” he said. And a few seconds later again “Finch? Are you OK?”

He quickly walked over to Finch’s side, bent over a bit so he could see the screen better and put his hand on Finch’s shoulder which, to his amazement, was trembling slightly. Harold’s index finger seemed to be tracing the contours of a man’s face on the screen.

Reese heard Finch swallow audibly and physically shake himself out of his trance. “Yes, Mr. Reese, I’m perfectly fine”, as he removed his hand from the monitor.

“Who’s that, Finch?” asked Reese, looking at the very handsome, very pale face on the screen. The white blond hair gave the man a somewhat otherworldly, ethereal appearance, but the silvery, almost transparent eyes made him look extremely powerful. He was dressed in black, with a white shirt, a fact that was not lost upon Reese.

“That, Mr. Reese, is our new number. His name is Aloysius Pendergast, an FBI agent from the New Orleans Bureau, and an old acquaintance of mine.”


	2. Of Warm Honey Dripping Under a Hot Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Reese makes a discovery and another bird surfaces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy to be posting chapter 2 - and barely 5 days after chapter 1 - I think I've created a monster! Do please comment - as you know, I'm very new at this so suggestions, comments, corrections etc. are all welcome. Still very tame but smut is afoot (though not for a while yet).

Reese stood up, turned on his heels and went to the back room. He came back buttoning his jacket after having put his Glock at his lower back, dropping his black leather gloves on Finch’s desk to pick up a printed sheet with Pendergast’s photo and available information.

"Get me the details on the comm link, Finch,” said John as he started to walk away.

“Not so fast, Mr. Reese”, said Finch.  “We’ve received another number in the meantime so I will need you to look after that one and leave Aloysius to me. I do not want you going after him; I will deal with this myself.”

“First-name basis Finch? Is there something I should know?” said Reese, his hands surrepticiously tensing at his sides.

“I told you, Mr. Reese, that he is someone I used to know, and I would be grateful if you did not try to inveigle yourself in my personal life.  Here, that’s the sheet with the information on today’s second number – a Mrs Lina Santorino whose husband appears to be running numbers in Queens.  If you wouldn’t mind attending to this situation, I’ll start looking into Mr. Pendergast’s predicament.  As an FBI agent who is also a member of one of the country’s richest, and, might I add, craziest families, he will present an interesting case. I’m sure it will be a while before we can make heads or tails of his problems.” With this, Harold plucked the first sheet from Reese’s fingers, folded it in half, set it by his keyboard, and handed him the second sheet where a heavyset woman in her fifties, her hair in large rollers, appeared to be mocking him.

“Have you known him long?” asked Reese, which prompted Finch to turn his body in his swivel chair to look up at him from above his glasses. 

“Does he know you as Harold Finch, or Harold Crane, or H…?” John tried again, for which all he received as an answer was a slow blinking of Harold’s blue eyes and a lift of one eyebrow – Reese was forever curious as to how Harold could lift only one eyebrow, having tried it a few times in his mirror and only giving himself a headache for his trouble.

“But Finch, this other matter can probably be left with Carter or Fusco to attend to, and I’m sure I can help you a lot more…”

“Thank you Mr. Reese, that will be all. Have a good day! I’ll get you through the comm link if I need anything.” 

Having been summarily dismissed, John pursed his lips and picked up his gloves. Had he been a fifteen-year old girl, he would have stomped away in a huff. As it was, his eyes shading over, he let a toneless “It’s your nickel, Finch. Get me if you need me,” slip from his lips and exited the library without another word. 

He knew full well that the work on this second number could be summarily dispatched, but he’d already made up his mind that he would string it along while doing a bit of inquiry on the side into the very intriguing Mr. Pendergast. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t close the comm link once in a while – after all, Finch did the same periodically, especially when pursuing personal matters. They were so intimately intertwined that they could continually hear each other’s intakes of breath, sighs, coughs and yawns, often forgetting to even shut it off for the night. Sometimes Reese felt it was like having two persons within the same body – some sort of dual personality which, to his continuous amazement, was more calming than annoying. John was as much a private individual as Finch was, so he had been surprised to realize that he found this symbiotic relationship so rewarding. As for delving deeper in the life of the day’s enigma, well Finch wouldn’t know about it and who knew, Reese might be able to resolve that tricky matter for his boss. In any case, he had a nagging doubt that Finch had somehow thrown this second number into the mix just to keep him busy and out of his hair. Well, two could play that game.

While John was occupied with the second number, Finch sat in the library preparing to make a phone call that was long overdue.

                                                                                                  *******

“Pendergast residence, this is Proctor, how may I help you?”

Even as prepared as he was, Harold did not expect the pang the man’s voice caused in his chest and the flood of memories it brought back. “Proctor? Is that you?”

“Yes, yes it is. Who do I have the… Oh, is that Mr. Argus? Mr. Harold Argus? I would recognize your voice anywhere, sir”

“The very same my dear Proctor. It’s been far too long, I know. How have you been? Is Aloysius still keeping you busy?”

“As usual Mr. Argus, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. Though at my advancing age, I find some of his adventures a tad difficult to fathom at times, but I do not travel with him all the time now, and we do spend more time in New Orleans, which is much better for these old bones of mine!”

“Proctor, I’m sure you’re as spry as ever! How is my dear Aloysius? I have just gotten back from Europe and I thought I’d give him a tinkle.  Is he still gainfully employed?  I’ll never understand why that boy would want to work at a day job when he could retire and enjoy all that life has to offer him,” Harold let his voice trail softly.

Reese was mesmerised.  He’d left the comm link open and was listening to Harold, who now went under another bird name… But that was not what caused Reese’s surprise.  It was rather the fact that Harold’s voice had undergone a transformation that, had John not heard it himself, he would never have believed possible.  The voice was soft, almost tender, with elongated vowels and a lilting quality, like warm honey dripping under a hot sun. It made John’s breath catch in his throat and brought a heaviness to his groin that made him barely catch a moan before he let it out. It also made him almost intensely jealous of the man who could operate such a change in Harold. Why had he only ever been subjected to the clipped, cold voice of this man who had come to mean so much to him.  If speaking to that Proctor, who appeared to be Pendergast’s manservant, brought about such a metamorphosis, how would John feel when Harold had Pendergast on the phone, or even when he’d see him in person?

“Mr. Pendergast is away at present sir, though I expect him later tonight. Shall I have him call you?”

“You know what, Proctor, make sure to give him my best love and tell the sweet boy I’ll call him tonight. I can’t wait to hear his voice after all those years.”

Harold hung up and sat at his desk, not moving, barely breathing, his sweaty palms rubbing the fine wool on the thighs of his trousers.  Slowly his breathing came back to normal and his heart stopped beating a tattoo against his ribs.

It also dawned on him, to his horror, that he had left the link opened and that John had probably heard that whole conversation.  He tapped his right ear as though he was trying to open the communication.

“Mr. Reese?, Mr. Reese, are you there?”

“Oh, sorry, Finch, I’d closed the link when I left the library since it appeared you would not be needing me. What can I do for you?” Reese hoped Finch wouldn't realize that he'd been listening all along.

“Would you mind dropping by the library once you’re done for the day, there’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

“Sure Finch whatever you say. Do you want me to pick up something to eat? Korean strikes your fancy?”

“I’m sure whatever you choose will be fine Mr. Reese. I’ll see you then.”


	3. A Large, Dark, Solitary Peacock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet a large, dark, solitary peacock, Mr. Finch makes a startling confidence and Reese is not a twelve-year old girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3, as promised - each chapter is getting longer so I'm happy with that.  
> No smut yet but dinna fret, as my Scottish friend is fond of saying... it's coming! (sorry for the bad pun). As usual, comments, suggestions, questions are always welcome!

Reese had spent the better part of his afternoon making inquiries about Mrs. Santorino’s husband and had spoken to her. Just as he thought, the matter would be fairly straightforward to resolve. The man had lost his job a few months back and had not told his virago of a wife. He had been trying to make do by organising betting pools among friends and former co-workers, and had gotten involved with a small-time crook who was running numbers. A few “conversations” with Mr. Santorino’s so-called colleagues would settle the matter quickly enough.

After having spoken with Finch, he’d stopped at a Korean diner along the way and he was now walking towards the library laden with sweet-smelling delicacies in paper bags. Evening was approaching and people were leaving offices or making their way to dinner. The early fall painted a golden hue on buildings and the air was still a bit too warm for the season.

Making sure he was not followed, John entered the library and made his way upstairs quickly. He schooled his features in a business-like scowl. The morning’s dismissal still irked him and he did not really mind if Finch noticed. “I’m here, Finch,” he announced as he reached the top floor, walking with a measured step to the desk where Harold was busy making room for their dinner. “Grilled BBQ pork, chilled makguksu noodles, kimchi deviled eggs, a salad whose name I don’t remember and can’t pronounce, and omija tea, from the Korean restaurant we came across the other night when we went for our walk,” he said, as he opened the containers.

“Hopefully,” he added, placing the tea in front of Finch, “that one won’t taste like dishwater; it’s made with five types of Korean local ber…”

“I apologise if I was curt this morning, Mr. Reese,” said Finch, looking at Reese earnestly. “As you probably surmised, seeing Aloysius as a possible victim gave me quite a turn, but I should have told you the reason why I was…”

“No need, Finch, I’m your employee -- you don’t owe me any explanation,” cut Reese, busying himself with the meal. “I guess you want me to tell you how it went with Mrs. Santorino?” he added.

Finch sighed. “Oh dear,” he said. “I seem to have made quite a mess of things. And you know that you’re much more than just an employee Mr. Reese, please don’t play the martyr – it’s unbecoming and quite childish,” he continued, aimlessly turning the needles on his fork without ever moving anything towards his mouth. He realized at that point that he really was not hungry.

Bear, sitting by him, was looking at the fork and the noodles with a twinkle in his eye, hoping that Finch would discard the whole affair and let it drop to the floor where he would be happy to help clean it up.

Squaring his shoulders and taking a deep breath, Finch started: “You know a few of my alter egos already, Mr. Reese, but I can tell you that there are many more of them whom you don’t know.” As John appeared to be on the verge of speaking, Finch added, “Please let me finish. I fear that if I don’t tell you this now, I may never do so, and if this incident with Mr. Pendergast turns into -- as you would say in the vernacular -- the proverbial shit storm it appears to be developing into, I may never get the chance to do so.” Reese said nothing but his expression at listening to Finch’s explanation spoke loudly. His blue eyes had honed in on Finch’s face, and he was barely breathing or moving – he knew that he was finally about to be given some insight into his secretive boss, and into Finch’s very mysterious FBI friend.

“I have spent the better part of the day going over Mr. Pendergast’s finances which I must say are in irreproachable order. Nothing there is amiss and there is not the slightest hint of misappropriation or anything of that ilk. So we will have to look elsewhere to find where the threat is coming from. And before you say anything, I refuse to even entertain the notion that Aloysius could be the perpetrator of any nefarious deed. He is one of the most scrupulously honest men I know, save you, Mr. Reese.” John had the good sense to not add anything, simply nodding to show Finch he was following him.

“I should first tell you that I created the Argus persona under something of a false pretense, many years ago. You know that I collect rare first editions, and Aloysius’s collection, handed down from his family, is among the best in the country, even the world. I wanted to approach him in the hope that he might be interested in selling one book which I had been seeking for many years. I am especially partial to hand-coloured first editions or even artists’ original watercolours of anything which, as you would rightly presume, deals with ornithology as well as botany. I had heard that he had the original of a book called “Les Fleurs animées”, which included over 100 original watercolours by the artist himself, a man called Jean-Jacques Granville who published it in 1847. So I created Harold Argus, amateur botanist and ornithologist, purchased him a house in the French Quarter, and set upon to make the acquaintance of Mr. Pendergast who lived nearby. I had to resort to various stratagems to do so because Aloysius is, like me, a very private person. I was trying to calculate his age earlier today and I think that he is probably in his late forties.”

“However, having finally been able to make his acquaintance, I am afraid I got caught at my own game and ended up in a situation I would never, in a million years, have expected. But before I go any further, Mr. Reese, do you know what an argus is?”

“Well, Finch, the only Argus I know is the M-55 Argus assault rifle and I’m pretty sure that’s not what you mean. I can identify at least a hundred guns and rifles at a single glance, I can read detailed maps with the best of them and I can shoot a dime from half a mile away and never fail, but I have to confess that birds and flowers are about as far from my reality as guns and rifles are from yours, though I must say that you’re a quick study,” said Reese.

“Well, be that as it may, Mr. Reese, the Great Argus, _Argusianus Argus_ , is a large, dark, solitary peacock-like bird from the pheasant family whose plumage looks like so many eyes and whose tail, when displayed, can reach over six feet wide.”

“Whoa there Finch, that’s a bit more information than I need to know,” said John trying to hide a smile and bring some levity in the conversation.

Finch continued as though he hadn’t heard Reese at all. “Thought to be polyamorous, it is, in fact, a monogamous bird. Here’s a photo for your edification,” added Finch, handing Reese a printed sheet, which prompted him to comment: “Well, monogamy must be weighing on him, Finch, because he sure doesn’t look like a happy bird!”

Letting a long, put-upon sigh escape, Finch rolled his eyes and continued. “I’m not telling you all this as a joke, Mr. Reese. And believe me, if there was a way for me not tell you at all, I would keep the information to myself. But I am afraid you will soon have to be involved in the whole situation and since you may come across a side of me which you do not know, and to which I do not know how you will react, I felt I had to bring that matter to the forefront. The fact is, Mr. Reese, that I came to be extremely close to Aloysius and…”

“Finch, did you have an affair with that vampire?”

“Mr. Reese, really! He is not a vampire! Are you a twelve-year old girl? I hear they’re all fascinated with vampires these days.” said Finch, his irritation plainly visible.

“But Finch, I mean, did you look at the guy? If he’s not a vampire, he’s at least an undertaker. He’s white as a ghost, and honestly, who dresses like that?”

“Hehmm,” said Finch, pointedly looking at Reese in his dark suit and white shirt. To which Reese had the good sense to look sheepish.

“And what if I did have an affair with him Mr. Reese? Would you have a problem with that? That’s really the crux of the matter. If you do not feel like you can work with me under these circumstances, please let me know immediately so I can make other arrangements.”

“Aw, Finch, come on, I have no problem with that. I mean, I spent most of my life in the army or in dark ops living with guys constantly. I’ve seen it all. I was just surprised since I know you were with Grace for such a long time…”

“Mr. Reese, have you seen the movie Spartacus?” asked Finch, seemingly out of the blue.

“Can’t say that I have Finch, or if I did, it did not make much of an impression because I don’t remember it.”

“Well, Mr. Reese, there is a saying in that movie along the lines that a man may like oysters as much as he may like snails. I hope you won’t ask me to elaborate…”

“Oh. Ooh.” was all that Reese could come up with as an answer, feeling the heat burn his cheeks. That surprised him since he was not in the habit of blushing or even showing much emotion. But the whole day had been one of surprises.

Finch continued on, not looking at Reese, but seemingly fascinated by the way the lid of one of the cardboard boxes on his desk was misaligned. “All of this, John, is by way of telling you that you may hear or see things in the next few days which are not in character with the Harold Finch you know, and I would be grateful if you would accept it in the spirit of saving the life of a man who, though I have had no contact with for at least ten years, is still, and will always be, very dear to me.”

“Of course, Harold,” said John, moved by the discomfort Finch appeared to be feeling. “You’re my boss, the guy who saved me, helped me redeem myself and gave me hope of a better life. I would never do anything to jeopardise our association. I hope you know you can count on me to protect you, and whoever you want me to keep safe, even with my own life,” said John, his voice becoming more rough and ragged as he went on. He stopped then, and wondered how a piece of dust had gotten in his eye and made his vision swim somewhat.

“Thank you,” said Harold, extending his arm to put his hand briefly on John’s wrist, looking him in the eye.

And then, just as quickly, he was back to being Harold Finch, businesslike, crisp and determined.

“I have spoken to Proctor, Mr. Pendergast’s manservant, today to confirm that I would be meeting Aloysius tomorrow for lunch at Les Mignardises – I have arranged for you to be our waiter since their head waiter, a Mr. Jorge Garcia, who would usually be serving at Mr. Pendergast’s habitual table, has won a 3-day all expenses paid weekend to the Bahamas, thanks to a contest I devised and to which he was the only participant. He was thrilled to have won, I have to say, and is bringing his 80-year old mother along; she was thrilled too! I believe that we will be needing some very attentive service, so you will be able to hear everything that goes on at our table. Once the lunch is over, and depending on what Aloysius reveals, you may be called upon to deal with whatever happens with your customary expediency. We will keep constant contact through the comm link. That way, we will be able to see things develop, I hope. I must say I will be happy when that whole affair is over!” added Finch.

Reese saw that the conversation was waning. Finch appeared extremely tired. The very fine skin around his eyes was dark and papery and his eyes were reddened. As Finch tried to get up, he almost lost his footing. He tried to not let it show but his limp was more pronounced as he moved to put his coat on. This case was taking its toll on his boss and Reese was not happy.

“Do you want to come over to the loft for a night cap?” said Reese, “Or do you want me to drop you somewhere since you dismissed Frick and Frack?”

“No, thank you Mr. Reese, I'll walk. The night air will do me good. And do, please, try to refrain from calling them Frick and Frack," said Finch, despite the small smile tugging at his lips. "Try to get some sleep tonight – I know you do not sleep much – but I fear the next few days will have precious few occasions for us to relax, so try to take it easy tonight. Good night, I’ll see you at the restaurant tomorrow. Your shift starts at 10 a.m. and our reservation is for noon,” said Finch, as he made his way out of the library, his uneven steps sounding hollowly on the stone floor.

Reese left the library a few seconds later, just long enough so Finch would not have the impression he was being followed, and he hung back a while, trailing his boss from a few hundred feet away to make sure nothing happened to him along the way. As he came to Second Avenue, a bus idled in the middle of the street and when the light changed, Reese was unable to see Finch anywhere. It was not the first time his boss had given him the slip, so he turned on his heels and made his way to his loft. With everything that had happened and all he had learned that day, he knew in advance that sleep would be a rare commodity that night.


	4. Of French Restaurants and Double Elephants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harold reminisces, Reese plays the waiter, Pendergast gets whisked away, Wesley gets a handful and everything goes to hell in a hand-basket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, smut (light smut, however) in this here chapter 4.
> 
> However, this is a warning that some dark stuff is coming in chapter 5 (non-con, restraints, delayed gratification, edging, etc.) so if this is not your cuppa, please give the next chapter a pass.
> 
> Because some people have mentioned hesitating reading crossfics when they do not know the 'outside' protagonists, here is a link to Pendergast on Wikipedia - therein you will find a short bio, his family's history, and quite a bit of info which will help you flesh him out a bit.
> 
> I'm also adding an imdb.com link to Paul Bettany (he of the crazy monk fame) because in my mind, he has always been Pendergast - the first, largest photo, is especially true to type since he is wearing Pendergast's 'uniform' of black suit, white shirt and dark tie.
> 
> Oh, and a link to Audubon on Wikipedia - fascinating stuff - and if you want to delve deeper in Audubon, read the magnificent biography of his by Richard Rhodes.  
> There be links: 
> 
> Pendergast link: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aloysius_Pendergast  
> Paul Bettany link: http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0079273/?ref_=sr_1  
> Audubon link: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_James_Audubon
> 
> I think the title of this chapter is self-explanatory - italics for languages other than English, of course, and for stuff happening in the past (at the beginning of the paragraph). 
> 
> you will discover a side of Mr. Finch that few of us knew - as he mentioned to John in the last paragraph. We will also follow them on their adventures... and the chapter will not end well for our poor Mr. Reese who will find himself in a dire predicament.

 

_August 6th, 2000_

_The heat and humidity of mid-afternoon would have been suffocating had it not been for the two large fans listlessly moving the air above the bed. The sun was doing its darndest to melt the white shutters and threw an interesting pattern of light and shadows on the bedroom walls. On the rumpled bed, a boneless and sated Harold Argus was dozing and rubbing a hand contentedly on his lightly furred belly. The remnants of his last orgasm were coursing through his body, making him twitch. He squeezed himself lightly and sighed as he felt one last drop of come slide out of his cock and drip on his upper thigh.  Eyes half-closed, he brought his hand up again, being careful not to brush against his over-sensitized nipples. Life was sweet. He had never before in his life, been in a relationship where sex was so plentiful and so good. Despite his cold and aloof exterior, Aloysius was an indefatigable and inventive lover, but he could be exhausting. However, he had given Harold the book he had been so interested in as a token of his love and appreciation, after Harold had coyly and sweetly hinted that he would so love to purchase it.  Their liaison had lasted for three glorious months, but Harold had recently started to miss his former incarnation, his solitude, his books and his beloved computers. He could not wait to return to the anonymity and the hustle and bustle of New York, resume his friendship with Nathan and re-enter his old life – there WAS such a thing as too much civility, mint juleps and cotillions._

_The shower stopped running and a still-wet Aloysius emerged, water dripping in rivulets from his blond hair, a towel loosely wrapped around his hips. Harold got up and walked to the bathroom but was caught by a very wet arm and summarily but gently pushed against the wall. Aloysius’s mouth clamped on the side of his neck, just below his ear, and a towel-clad knee made its way between his thighs. He could feel Aloysius swelling against his hip._

_“Come on, love, I have to take a shower. I’m tired, I’m sore, I’m sweaty and I stink. Do be a dear and make us a tall, cold drink and we’ll see what we can do about a third round after that,” said Harold, his hand sneaking under his lover’s towel to tug gently at the heavy cock. That third round was the furthest thing from his mind, and he found that it was getting more and more difficult to keep a firm grip on his Southern accent, it kept threatening to slip, especially when he was annoyed or irritated._

_“Hmmm,” was all that came out of the other man as he humped Harold’s hand a few times. “Oh, what you do to me, my dearest Harold, I just want to…”_

_“Aloysius, darling,” interrupted Harold, “please give it a rest. Aren’t you supposed to be the strong, stoic and silent type? I’m ever so afraid that you’re in danger of losing that reputation of yours, and then, where would we be?” asked Harold, smiling and kissing his lover’s shoulder to remove the sting from his words._

_But the clock had already struck midnight, and a few days later, while Aloysius was meeting his handsome but crazy brother Diogenes to go over the family’s finances, Harold sold the house, finished packing, arranged for movers and finally left New Orleans behind.  In the hope of being forgiven for his disappearing act, he sent Aloysius a beautifully handwritten letter explaining his hasty retreat by inventing a dying aunt in Italy, whom he had to see before she departed this world, and saw to it that a magnificent ghost orchid, one of the world’s rarest blooms, which he had been able to secure from the Florida sanctuary where it had been discovered, was delivered to Aloysius that same day. The man would be thrilled – he’d been looking for that orchid for the longest time, and Harold would no longer feel obligated towards him or his family for the gift of the book._

_Harold would never see or hear from Aloysius again but he always kept fond memories of his Louisiana hiatus._

 

(Today)

Harold exited the limousine and entered Les Mignardises, still lost in his memories of those last few days with Aloysius. He was greeted by the maître d’ and brought to Pendergast’s table as Reese’s voice came through the comm link.

“Finch, don’t acknowledge me yet – you don’t want to appear to be talking to yourself -- but it looks as though I’ll be busier than originally planned since one of the other waiters has come down with the flu. Hopefully I’ll be able to at least get tables located close to yours,” said Reese as he appeared in Finch’s line of sight, a vision in black and white with the black pants and long waist-tied white apron, the white shirt, black bowtie and black vest worn by all self-respecting waiters in French restaurants the world over. He appeared to have just come up from the cellar and was carrying four bottles of wine.  A deep frown marred his forehead. His shift had started two hours before and he had had to endure an interminable dissertation on the superiority of French cuisine, French wines, French service, French style and French people, to the point where he was set to strangle every French neck within reach. Added to that, having to remember an overly long menu (in French) with a zillion permutations, all of which punctuated with the bitching and moaning of the French chef who was running his kitchen like a martinet on crack.  It was going to be a long day.

A commotion attracted Finch’s eye to the street and he saw Pendergast exiting his Silver Wraith Rolls, Proctor at the wheel, sedately manoeuvering it like a tall ship in full sail. Always elegant but soberly dressed in his usual black suit, Aloysius entered the restaurant and turned to the table where Harold waited for him.

“ _Ah, mon cher Harold!_ ” exclaimed Pendergast as Harold stood up, smiling and opening his arms. Pendergast crossed over rapidly and enfolded Harold in turn, kissing him on both cheeks to the annoyance of Reese who, standing at the other end, near the kitchen, had just seen him enter – he was not impressed. The guy DID look like a vampire! He was also shorter and built slimmer than Reese, who tried to dismiss him from his mind.  In the dining room, the two men remained in each other’s loose embrace as they continued to stand, talking in French. They had gotten into that habit during their affair, since they both spoke the language – Pendergast flawlessly, Harold quite fluently. It fitted perfectly with both their need for privacy and secrecy, and gave them the opportunity to practice.

“ _Très cher,_ ” said Harold, “ _tu me pardonnes de ne pas t’avoir donné de nouvelles?_ ” asking Pendergast if he forgave him for not keeping in touch.

“ _Mais bien sûr…_ ” but the rest of Pendergast’s acquiescence was cut off by Reese’s irascible rejoinder coming in Harold's ear through the comm link and making him jump. “Finch, dammit, how am I supposed to keep track of what’s going on if you keep talking jibberish… you know I don’t speak French!” Harold almost squawked in surprise and Aloysius looked at him as though he’d just been bitten by a snake.  “ _Ça va?_ ” he asked in his low, mellifluous voice, to which Harold answered in English, “Yes, I’m OK, I apologise my dear, I just bit my tongue.” Pendergast quirked an eyebrow at him, but did not say anything else.

Sitting down, both men continued reminiscing and catching up, Pendergast keeping his hand on Harold’s which was resting on the immaculate tablecloth, rubbing small circles at the juncture between his thumb and his hand.

The room had started to fill in. Reese was assigned a table with four women on a business lunch, one with a couple of tourists gawking at the magnificence of the restaurant and the prices of the menu, and another one with an elderly gentleman whose grandfatherly demeanor was shot when he lightly pinched a mortified Reese’s butt as he was bringing him to his table. At the same time, two tall, solidly built men came in and were seated next to Aloysius’s table after Reese saw one of them slip something in the receptionist’s hand. As they sat, he also noticed the coiled communication device in their ear and the way their suit jacket appeared to bunch at their pectorals. He was sure they were either security detail or government agents, or worse, and wondered if they might present a threat. They ordered water and salads and sat facing each other without uttering another word, their eyes periodically darting to the adjoining table. The restaurant was now full and Reese would be run off his feet trying to accommodate everybody, especially since the last time he had waited on table was at the golf club in his hometown while still in college.

A few seconds later, Reese arrived at Harold’s table to take the drink order, pointedly looking at the joined hands of Harold and his companion. Had his eyes been daggers, both men would have been pinned to the table, by the hand. “Would you gentlemen care for a cocktail?” he asked, smiling with his teeth only. 

“Oh, hello,” said Harold, smiling winsomely at John. “We’ll have a bottle of your Chateau Pétrus; it is the only wine my friend here will drink.” Reese wrote the order down and as he turned to go and fill it, he heard Pendergast’s “Harold! If I didn’t know better, I’d say you are positively smitten!”

“Do not be silly, Aloysius”, said Harold, his mouth pursing in a false moue of distaste, none too happy that Reese would be hearing all this.

“I can see it clearly my dear. The smile, the tilt of the head, the beguiling eyes, the way you followed him with your eyes as he left. He does have a gluteus maximus you could bounce quarters off,” said Aloysius, “but Harold, don’t you think he’s a little bit long in the tooth? The man’s at least in his forties and still waiting tables… and he works in a French restaurant and cannot utter a single word of French, I mean, how pathetic is this? I swear the norms of service are really going down in today’s dining establishments.” Hearing that, Reese almost turned right back to give the annoying albino undertaker, as he had taken to calling Pendergast, a piece of his mind, but he brought himself back to the task at hand. With so many customers to serve, he could not afford to slow down, and he did not want to attract any attention.  But arriving at the bar, he rolled his eyes so far that they almost fell in the back of his skull, half-scaring the poor barmaid to death – she was sure Reese was about to faint.

“Aloysius, you are such a snob sometimes,” said Harold, uttering a lilting laugh, to Reese’s dismay. How could the man sound so convincingly utterly different than his usual self? At the table, the conversation continued apace, Harold pressing Aloysius, trying to find more information about his life in order to try and elucidate the mystery of the threats against his life.  It would have been easier if he had told Pendergast how he knew of the danger, but he could not divulge any details about the machine, and in any case, he was supposed to be arriving from Italy.

When Pendergast happened to mention that he was in New York for a second visit to the city’s largest auctioneer, Harold became very still, as did John, who ended up standing still, in the next aisle, with a bottle of wine in one hand and a glass in the other. 

“Allez, allez! Chop, chop!” said the maître d’ “That wine is not going to serve itself!” tapping on John’s shoulder, which almost caused the man to be thrown summarily out the closest window.

“I have finally decided to sell the Audubon,” said Aloysius. As Reese passed by the adjoining table, he could hear a few words of the two suits’ conversation: “Wesley… tonight… auction…” He wanted to tell Finch but did not want to startle him as he’d done previously, so he kept his own counsel – there would be time enough to do so if something untoward developed.

“You can’t be serious,” said Finch, amazed. “Not the double elephant folio?”

“Harold,” said Pendergast, “do you remember the first time you saw it? I was not sure if you were going to faint or have an orgasm! Honestly, I’ve become somewhat wary of keeping it at home in New Orleans even with all the security around it, he said, _sotto voce_. The last copy that was sold, at auction, in 2010, fetched over $11 million. I’m thinking there are so many deserving charities which could benefit from it, and not only that. If a museum were to purchase it, then the general public could see it and enjoy it too. Right now, it sits in a vault and is never even looked at.” At that moment, his cell phone rang. He excused himself and walked close to the door of the restaurant to take the call. Finch took that opportunity to pretend going to the washroom and he crossed paths with Reese along the way. As they were hidden by a wall, Reese made him aware of the words he’d been able to catch from their neighbour’s conversation and asked him: “Finch, is there such a thing as a book worth $11 million?”

“I’m afraid so, Mr. Reese, and if Aloysius has already had a preliminary meeting with the auctioneers, I’m afraid word might have gotten around. I wouldn’t be surprised if we might have to look in that direction for a possible threat,” answered Finch, adding: “The Audubon double elephant folio is made up of four volumes which together weigh 200 pounds. The books are about 40 inches by 25, the largest size ever used for books. There are four books in each set and each one of the 700 pages is a copper engraving from an original watercolour by Audubon himself.  Each sheet was hand-coloured to Audubon’s exacting standards, and only 180 sets were ever made; were they to be made today, each set would cost over a million dollars to print, and we do not know exactly how many sets have survived to this day” explained Finch, who always sounded a bit schoolmarmish when he was explaining something to Reese, or to anyone else for that matter.

Reese gave a low whistle and turned to look into the restaurant. Aloysius was still standing near the door, talking on his phone, but the two men appeared to be about to get up, both the same time, and both looking intently at Pendergast. “Time to go Harold, I think the shit is about to hit the proverbial fan! Take Pendergast and go to one of your safe houses – I’ll delay those guys as much as I can and we’ll reconnect at some point.”

Luckily Finch and Reese were very close to the entrance and to the FBI agent. Harold ambled quickly in his direction, grabbed him by the arm and continued walking quickly towards the exit, a surprised Pendergast looking at him in dismay. “No time to explain my dear, let’s go!” said Finch in a clipped tone. His limousine was idling closeby and both men entered it, Finch telling his driver to move as quickly as he could and take them to a Long Island address. “Make sure we are not followed,” added Finch who then sat back in his seat and proceeded to try and give Pendergast some sort of explanation that would not entirely blow his cover.

Reese had to move quickly. He intercepted the first man with an elbow to the chin and a knee to the groin but the second slipped by him. He took off running, hampered by his long apron. “Shit, shit, shit,” he mumbled, trying to run, not lose the suit, and untie the long tails of his apron, finally getting rid of it and taking off at a fast clip. The guy had disappeared between two buildings and he had to move if he did not want to lose him entirely. There were too many people to discharge his firearm safely while running so he kept in pursuit, losing the bowtie and the vest at the same time. He could still see the guy but the laneways kept twisting this way and that and he kept entering courtyards and back stores, never slowing down. Turning a corner, the guy up-ended a garbage pail and Reese almost slipped and fell. He slowed down to move the pail away and realized he’d managed to lose his prey. Bending down to catch his breath, he never saw or felt his opponent who had backed up and re-entered a building to come back behind him. As the large two-by-four hit him behind the head, he crumpled to the ground and lost consciousness when his head hit the pavement.

***

“We’ve got him boss”, said Jackson, the guy who’d captured Reese. “Do you want him at the warehouse as discussed?”

“Yes, bring him over. I’ll get the information out of him soon enough.  You say you saw him speak with the man who was with Pendergast. I’m sure they are all in on it. I must get to it before they do and since you say the other two left together, this one will tell us where they went.”

“But boss, what if you can’t make him talk?” said Jackson.  The Englishman’s voice became even frostier and deadlier. “Don’t worry about me, Jackson. I’ll know soon enough. Now, bring the guy over and lock the door as you go. I’ll be there later and I’ll call you once I have the information so you can co-ordinate with the guys you’ve hired.”

“Yes, boss” was all Jackson said before putting his cell away.

An hour later, Alistair Wesley made his way to the warehouse. He saw the crumpled figure, blood staining the side of the man’s face and his white shirt. He was still unconscious and his hands and ankles were tied securely.  As he bent down to grab his prisoner’s chin roughly, he did a double-take. “Well,” he said to himself, “six degrees of separation indeed. If it isn’t the handsome Mr. Reese. This should be fun.”

He went to a sink installed on the wall closest to where he was standing and, bringing back a pail of water, proceeded to throw it in Reese’s face. John woke up, sputtering, and realised that he was securely tied, without any possibility of moving for the time being.

Wesley approached him again, grabbed his chin one more time and pulled him roughly so they could look at each other. “We meet yet again, Mr. Reese! And once again you are thwarting my plans. You seem to be making a habit of it and I do not like that,” he said in a menacing tone.

“Well, whoop dee do, life’s a bitch” said Reese, wincing and trying to free himself from the man’s grasp. Wesley backhanded him; the wound on the side of his head started bleeding again.

“I see we’re going to have a contest of wills Mr. Reese, but you seem to forget that you are the one tied down and this time, I am the one with the upper hand. Let me assure you that what happened the last time, with Mr. Velt, will not happen again!” To which Reese snorted inelegantly, schooling his features in the bland absent look which had been bred into him as a dark operative.

“I really do not have time for this” said Wesley as he came behind Reese with a syringe which he proceeded to empty in John’s neck. In less than a few seconds, he was again unconscious.  Wesley immediately realized that his quarry would be difficult to install on the table he’d set out for his usual “entertainments” – his victims were usually more consenting and less heavy to manoeuver.  But a half-hour of groaning and grunting finally saw Reese in position.

A large measure of a vintage single malt whisky helped Wesley while away the half-hour it took for the sedative to start leaving Reese’s body.  Finally, he approached him, slapped him across the face to wake him up and threw another glass of water at him to finish the job.  Reese woke up, groggy and nauseated from the sedative. At least, the flesh wound on his head had stopped bleeding and making a quick recon, he realized that he had not suffered anything else.

“So, Mr. Reese, feeling chatty yet?” asked Wesley, to which John did not answer, not even blinking an eye. “So that’s the way it’s going to be, is it? Do you think I don’t know your ilk, man! I know all the tricks they’ve taught you, if you remember our first meeting. Guys like you are almost looking forward to seeing how far you can push yourselves. I know I could work you over and torture you for a week and you wouldn’t even blink an eye. Waterboarding, electricity, chains, whips and the like have no pull on you and your kind since you take it upon yourselves to withstand the worst abominations as if it were a badge of honour.” While saying all that, Wesley was ever so softly running the back of his hand over Reese’s abdomen and torso, sometimes stopping to flick at a dark, pebbly nipple, which made John try to not twitch. “But fear not Mr. Reese, you will talk!  You see, though you are ready, willing and able to withstand horrors and pain, I am really looking forward to how much you can withstand… pleasure. You see, there is a very fine line between pleasure and pain. Once you’ve been edged for a few hours, I am sure you will tell me everything I have ever wanted to know, and more, just so I can finally put you out of your sweet misery and let you come,” said Wesley, resting his hand lightly over Reese’s groin. As a shiver went through him, John closed his eyes and tried to ground himself for what was to come.

 

 


	5. The fine line between pleasure and pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is the hands of the nefarious Alistair Wesley who will have his way with him in the hope of making him divulge the whereabouts of Pendergast and his Audubon folio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5 – this is the smutty chapter – non-con/edging/control/restraints – you’ve been warned. If it’s not your thing, please skip this chapter and move on to chapter 6 which will be up in a few days

 

The rope restraints held Reese’s wrists to his thighs which, in turn, were tied to his ankles. He was entirely naked, splayed out, his knees folded, held outstretched on either side of him. The buff-coloured ropes were half-an-inch thick and since there were four layers of them, they were surprisingly comfortable but absolutely immoveable.

To his horror, however, John realized that the comm link was still on. He had had no chance to either turn it off or remove it, and since it was completely invisible, there was no danger that Wesley might notice it -- which meant that if Harold had left it on at his end, he would be hearing the whole thing. John was mortified and this situation, to him, was much worse than whatever Wesley was planning to do to him since he had absolute confidence in his ability to withstand almost anything – he had been tortured with electricity for sixteen hours straight in Afghanistan and had never ventured any information, so he was not worried. His years of training would stand him in good stead.

“Are you familiar with shibari, Mr. Reese?” asked Wesley, again running the back of his hand on John’s stomach, very lightly. John closed his eyes, refusing to even look at him. “Well, it is the gentle art of Japanese rope restraints.  You see, you can fight all you want against your bindings, they will never move but they will also never tighten to cut your circulation. You are, as it stands, an almost willing participant in our little venture since, as I am sure you’ve noticed, you are in absolutely no pain. You just can’t move.” Wesley again flicked at a nipple, happy to notice the twitch in John’s cock. And just to be sure, he flicked at it a few more times, earning himself a murderous look from Reese’s half-closed eyes. “As you can see, I even went to the trouble of providing you with a padded leather table, which means we can comfortably have fun for hours, or until you tell me what I want to know, whichever comes first… and believe me, Mr. Reese, it won’t be you!”

***

Meanwhile, in Long Island, Harold, who had closed the comm link when he and Pendergast left the city, was getting antsy. Reese had not tried to communicate with him and he had no way of knowing if he had been able to intercept the two men and get any information from them. He was entirely confident in John’s ability to bring the situation to a happy dénouement, but he was still worried. And John did not have the address of this particular safe house so he would not know where to go if he needed to see Harold who imagined that he could always go to library and from there, contact him.

“Harold, please sit down and try to relax, you’re wearing a groove in the carpet,” said Aloysius, putting a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“I can’t Aloysius, don’t you see! John hasn’t contacted me, so I don’t know what’s going on. What if something happened to him?” added Harold. He tried to open comm link again. The last time he’d tried, while in the limousine, the connection had not worked and he could not hear anything. This time, however, to his dismay, he heard a cultured voice with a British accent, and the words “you can fight all you want Mr. Reese…”  and then nothing more.

“Oh God,” he exclaimed, both hands going to his mouth, the shock plainly visible on his face.  “Oh, John…” Harold was rooted in place, unable to move, and now so stressed out that he could not even register whatever else the disembodied voice had been saying. On the verge of hyperventilating, he moved towards the door, Pendergast running to catch up. “What is it, Harold? Please tell me!” he asked, planning to follow Finch outside. “Oh, Aloysius, it’s awful… someone has John. They must have caught him in an ambush, and I don’t even know where he is. He seems to be a prisoner somewhere, the voice said that he could fight all he wanted! How am I going to find him?” said a very distraught Harold.

“Harold, stop!” said Pendergast. “There is no need to panic just yet. What else did you hear?”

“I, I don’t know. I was so nervous that I couldn’t hear anything, but the man has a British accent…”

***

“Do you know, Mr. Reese, that a man’s body has a multitude of erogenous zones? And not only the most obvious ones, said Wesley, giving a few tugs to John’s dick.  “I am familiar with them all, and I will make you discover them too! Aren’t you happy?”

“But before we start, let’s try this again, in case you come to your senses and decide to tell me what I want to know. That way, with a simple tug at one of the ropes at your side, this artful display of bindings will fall apart and you will be able to go back to your life, should I choose to let you go.  So let’s see if you will co-operate.  I need one of two answers from you – you see, I am not unreasonable. You can give me one of two answers and then you’ll be able to go. The first question is: ‘Where is Aloysius Pendergast?’ My men saw him leave with his dining companion and I need to put my hands on him, posthaste. You see, we have unfinished business him and me. A few years ago, he organized a sting operation in England with MI6 and he dismantled my very lucrative diamond smuggling business. He made me lose millions of dollars and not only that, I barely escaped with my life and had to hide out in South Africa for four years.  Do you know what that means, Mr. Reese? It means I was away from my circuit, my money, my house and my life while that idiot was scouring the world looking for me. It’s a good thing I had friends in the South-African government, otherwise it would have been much more dicey for me.  But I digress.”

“My second question, should you not want to answer the first one, is ‘Where does he keep the Audubon folio’?  I’ve heard it said that he is planning to send it to auction here in New York and I want it to reimburse myself for the loss of my smuggling operation. I have client who is ready to pay me five millions for it, no questions asked.  Tell me where it is, and I’ll even throw in a handy sum for you, because we’re such good friends you and I,” added Wesley, squeezing John’s cock head and smoothing his thumb against its underside, forcing John to clench his teeth against the sensation.

“So, do you have an answer for me, Mr. Reese?” Wesley’s fingers now gently scratching the hairs above John’s cock which was traitorously starting to fill.

“Don’t worry Mr. Reese, I know you are not yet aroused. It’s simply a physiological response to tactical stimuli, nothing more… but I see you have decided not to co-operate, so we’ll probably have to move to more direct persuasion methods, no? So, do you have a word or two for me?”

“Fuck you!” snarled Reese, spitting in Wesley’s face.

“Ahhh, Mr. Reese, that’s not the answer I was expecting from you… But fear not, we have many hours during which we can become better acquainted and as I said, eventually you’ll tell me whatever I need to know. Now, to go back to our, or rather, your erogenous zones, did you know that the scalp has a multitude of nerve-endings and that a gentle scratching massage of a man’s head can induce an almost trance-like state of bliss?”

As he was talking, Wesley proceeded to scratch delicately like a large spider up and down John’s scalp. “Ah, I know you like it, Mr. Reese, I can see it in the fluttering of your eyelids.  Seeing a man enjoying himself is so rewarding for me!” John kept moving his head sideways to escape from the torturous fingers – there was no way he was going to enjoy it.

“Unfortunately, a few of your erogenous zones are out of my reach right now… the inside of the wrists, the fold at the back of your knees, the soles of your feet, and the sweet hollow at the swell of your buttocks, among others… but fear not, I have a whole playground at my disposal.”

John wanted to scream and tell the creep that he would never tell him what he wanted to know, had he even known the answer to the two questions. But he would not give Wesley that satisfaction. He concentrated on his breathing instead.

“But then again, there’s the good old foolproof ones also,” Wesley grabbing John’s cock and jerking it off a few times with wicked strokes ending with an excruciatingly exquisite twist that went around his cock’s head. John’s breath caught… but he tried to continue keeping a tenuous control over himself.

“Hmmm, isn’t that a most delicious manipulation, Mr. Reese, it’s all in the wrist action! See, just like this! Look at how you’re filling up now! You’re a very impressive man, I must say…”

***

Too stressed to even think of the predicament in which John found himself, Harold had taken out his cellphone, punched in a few numbers, and given it to Pendergast, asking him to see if he recognized the voice. It was only at the end of Wesley’s last few words which he, himself, could hear through the comm link, which had decided to come back on, that he realized that Aloysius would then know what John was being subjected too.  Harold blushed, ashamed at not knowing how to really deal with the situation, waiting for Pendergast to tell him if he could identify anything and trying not to imagine John splayed out, nude, erect and at the mercy of that mad man. The sharp pang of arousal that hit him made him catch his breath and almost double over, all the while making him even more ashamed of himself.

***

Wesley had decided to up the ante. He kept an amiable banter while stroking John with a quick movement, his whole hand wrapped around him but never hard enough to give Reese sufficient friction. John thought he was slowly going mad, shivering, trying to keep himself from moaning.  All his training served no purpose. While the pain of torture might have given him the impetus to go back within himself as he had been taught during his training, this exquisite stroking kept him grounded in the here and now.  He had started sweating, a fine sheen covering his belly. He could feel drops of sweat forming on his scalp. To his horror, he realized that he was humping Wesley’s hand who’d started laughing softly. “Isn’t that sweet Mr. Reese. Wouldn’t you want to come just about now? I could squeeze you just a tad more, like this, let’s say…” but Wesley only squeezed for one or two strokes, just enough to give John an extra push towards gratification, before removing his hand entirely. John’s hips kept moving of their own volition for a few seconds before he was able to stop himself. He could feel the heat on his cheeks and he tried to turn his head so Wesley couldn’t see him.

“Ahh, you’re blushing like a schoolgirl Mr. Reese. This is too sweet! I don’t see why you fight so hard against your pleasure. It would be such a sweet release wouldn’t it? I’m sure you can feel the come boiling in your balls, right about now…” he said, palming John’s balls gently, moving them away from his body where they’d retracted a few seconds ago.  He then proceeded to wrap his thumb and index around both of them, tightened his grasp, and ran the fingers of his other hand all over them.  John let a sigh escape, his hands tightening at his sides. Wesley kept it up for a while, and then stopped, removed his hand and let John’s cock go flaccid again. He then patted his dick gently and moved to the other side of the room to serve himself another glass of whiskey, keeping a watchful eye on his prey.

***

Harold had closed the link and retrieved his phone from Aloysius’s grasp. His blue eyes looked at his friend beseechingly: “Don’t you recognize the voice? Do you know who it might be? I have no idea myself but if they came after you, you must know who it is! Think Aloysius, please!”

Aloysius turned towards Harold, a scowl on his handsome face. “Harold, I’m afraid I have bad news for you. I’m pretty sure I know who this is and you won’t like it. He’s a devious mind, a man who stops at nothing to get what he wants.” Pendergast proceeded to tell Harold of his brush with Wesley during the diamond mine episode, and the other few brushes he had with him. “He has been trying to get to me since he left South Africa for personal reasons, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he was not involved with trying to steal the Audubon folio – he usually has his hands in most underhanded plots involving the arts especially, since he fancies himself an art historian.”

“But how will we be able to catch him, Aloysius? Have you any idea where he might be? Where he might be keeping John?” asked Harold.

Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed his jacket, and a set of keys on the table at the entrance, Aloysius following him. “Let’s go. I’ll take you to the place John and I work. I know you will keep our secret and since it is where my computers are located, maybe we will be able to come up with a plan,” said Harold. Aloysius knew Harold Argus was an original, a man who never did anything like anyone else. He would not be surprised that he’d set his office in an old library, or if he did, he would be too well-bred to say anything. There, Harold would be able to use the machine to find out more about John’s captor with the help of his friend.

***

Wesley was at John’s shoulder again, running his fingers maddeningly slowly around his neck and collarbones. John had started twitching again, unable to escape the man’s fingers. “You see Mr. Reese, part of the fun of this exercise, is to bring you ever so close to the brink, and bring you down again… and then start the whole process yet again, and again, and again. I see that you’ve gone soft so it’s about time we restarted our explorations, unless you have come to a change of heart and have decided to co-operate? No? How did you say, when you arrived, Mr. Reese? Life’s a bitch? Well, life’s a bitch indeed, though I rather think that you’re the bitch now, aren’t you, Mr. Reese? And a bitch in heat, I might add!”

“We’re about to bring this little game to a whole new level, though,” said Wesley, opening a drawer under the table, removing a bottle, setting it on John’s stomach, and blowing in a surgical glove. John’s stomach clenched so hard that the bottle rolled off his stomach and clattered to the floor. “Oh, I think I have your attention now, don’t I, Mr. Reese? Look at me! Now, Mr. Reese” yelled Wesley, catching John’s chin with his hand and forcing his head towards him. “So?” But John just closed his eyes, his teeth biting at the side of his lower lip. He was sweating more profusely now. Wesley walked slowly to the other end of the table, adjusting his glove, the bottle of lubricant in his hand. He flipped the cap open and looked at John who had opened his eyes. John swallowed audibly and turned his head. Wesley ran a finger ever so slowly in the cleft of John’s ass, scratching at the perineum and pressing on it a few times. He covered one finger with the lube and penetrated John excruciatingly slowly, feeling every ridge of his insides. John caught a whimper, which made Wesley smile again. He proceeded to go in and out, always slowly, making sure to hit John’s prostate on the in stroke and on the out stroke, sometimes curling a finger to tickle it gently. John moaned again, louder this time, the end of it sounding more like a sob.

“Shhh, Mr. Reese, don’t worry, I’ll take care of your poor neglected cock again,” said Wesley, grasping John and stroking him in a counter-tempo to what his finger was doing. John’s hips started moving again, each of Wesley’s upstrokes bringing an audible sigh. He could either push down and impale himself on Wesley's finger, or push up and grind inside the man's grasping hand. Wesley then started stroking in earnest, John’s moans accompanying each movement, a stream of precome flowing liberally from his dick. And then, just as it had built up, it stopped and Wesley moved away from the table. John kept going for a few more seconds again, his whole body trembling with the effort of trying to reach his orgasm. His breathing was so quick that Wesley was afraid he might be hyperventilating.  Moving closer, he slapped John’s belly hard and yelled “Breathe!”, which brought John back to earth, a shuddering breath finally making its way in his air passage.

***

Harold had never felt so powerless. He was searching on the computer for whatever buildings might belong to Wesley, with Pendergast’s help and they were starting to close in on a possible location, but he’d made the mistake of reopening the link, in case he could find out more information about John’s whereabouts, and had heard that last session.  He was so angry that he was afraid he might kill John’s captor if he ever set eyes on him. Aloysius looked at him and put his hand on Harold’s forearm.  “Does he know?”

“Does he know what,” said Harold, more sharply then he’d intended.

“How you feel about him, Harold. I saw the way he looked at you, and even in the few seconds you were together in front of me at the restaurant, I could feel the immense connection between the two of you. I am sure he feels the same about you as you do him, and he may be even more enraptured, my dear. There was a fierce devotion and a tenderness in his eyes, that made me almost jealous of what you two are sharing,” said Aloysius.

“No, he doesn’t, and it’s not much help right now anyway, is it!” answered Harold, his hands trembling on the keyboard. “The last thing I wanted to do was to bother him with my unwanted attention, especially since I did not know how he would react. To me, army types were always a bunch of homophobe yahoos, so I did not want to run the risk, even after I came to know him better. And I did not want to run the risk of losing his help and especially his friendship, so I kept it to myself,” added Harold.

***

“Shall we get started again, Mr. Reese? I mean, I’d ask you if you’ve changed your mind but I’m sure you haven’t and honestly, I’d be sad to have to let you go before the end of our little exploration,” said Wesley making his way again to the table. John’s knees started trembling even before Wesley arrived, which prompted him to caress the length of his legs, ending at his groin and massaging the space on either side of his dick. John let a low moan escape and moved his hips. “What is it Mr. Reese? You want me to start again? Well, if you insist,”  and so Wesley started again, his finger again unerringly hitting John’s prostate on each pass, his other hand stroking him mercilessly if expertly.

Wesley would stop his stroking sometimes, to run his thumb over the head of John’s dick, smearing the precome around the head, teasing the frenum with the pad of his thumb before going back to stroking. His touch again was too light to offer John much resistance and try as he may, he could not cantilever his hips enough to hit the man’s hand with the right force to make himself come. His whimpers where continuous now and he felt he was going to go nuts if it did not let up, feeling the head of his dick swelling and becoming so sensitive that even the lightest touch was driving him crazy. Just at the moment he thought he’d scream or faint, Wesley stopped again, staying between John’s legs and looking at him pointedly. “Not so much fun is it, Mr. Reese. Remember when I talked to you about the fine line between pleasure and pain… well I think we’re about to cross it,” he added ominously.

***

At the other end of town, Harold and Aloysius had finally stopped their search. Aloysius had remembered that Wesley owned a warehouse near the docks, where he’d kept the stolen Lamborghini the FBI had recuperated at the end of the diamond mine debacle. The building was away from prying eyes, large enough and Aloysius was pretty certain that since Wesley had not had time to move John too far, there was a good chance he might be there. 

He and Harold had raided John’s closet and were now armed to the teeth. Harold as usual, was very tentative and uncomfortable around firearms, but there was now only one thought in his mind: saving John at whatever cost. He was extremely grateful to Aloysius for his help. He had had to resort to a lot of finesse in order not to let his Finch persona displace his Argus persona, but if Pendergast had any misgivings, at least he was kind enough not to say anything.  Aloysius ran down the library stairs, Finch following him as quickly as his limp would allow. By the time he reached street level, Aloysius had already brought Harold’s car to the door and they tore down the street under cover of darkness.  John had now been in Wesley’s clutches for over ten hours and Harold, now unable to hear more of his predicament, was extremely concerned as to how John would fare.

***

Wesley was now teasing John’s nipples, each pass of his fingernail making John’s cock strain and his balls lift up towards his body. A pool of precome had gathered on his belly and his ragged breath sounded like a continuous whimper. Wesley had been at it for a while, his inventiveness knowing no bounds, and John was a mass of overwrought nerves. He was so tense he was afraid his jaw would shatter and the tension in the muscles of his belly was making him shiver constantly.  When Wesley entered him again, with two fingers this time, John’s muscles clung to the digits, trying to milk them and suck them deeper inside his bowels. He’d started keening softly while Wesley’s other hand had resumed its teasing at Reese’s cockhead.

Just as John was about to beg for his release, willing to promise anything, Wesley’s cell phone rang, startling them both and making John yell. He’d still not uttered a word but he knew he was at the breaking point, ashamed at having let himself down for the first time in his life.

Leaving John unattended, Wesley removed his glove, wiped his hand and bellowed “What?” in his cell phone.

“Boss,” said Jackson, “I was coming back to see if you would be needing anything. The two guys from the restaurant this morning, they're here! I just saw them in a car, they had just been at your old locker, you know the one on the far side, near the water? And I heard them mention number 834, the one you're in right now, so I just thought I’d tell you, in case you want to get away. I'll try to delay them if you want.”

“Yes, Jackson, do that, and then leave. I’ll contact you – and I’ll go by the back door – I left my car in the next aisle when I came in this afternoon.” Wesley hung up, and looked at John, who was so lost to the world that he had not even heard the conversation.

He approached him, grabbed his overwrought cock and proceeded to stroke him while tweaking his nipples again, stoking the fire and bringing John again to the brink of ecstasy.  “Please…” was all that John was able to utter, finally breaking down and begging for his release. “Ohhh, please, I can’t…I…Ohhh...”

And as Wesley finally gave him one last wicked stroke, having gone back to driving at his prostate with his gloved finger, John started coming, gushing everywhere. He yelled, sobbed, moaned, his hips humping against the man’s hand. He was still in the throes of his release when the front door to the locker crashed down, Wesley having exited smoothly by the back door a few seconds before.

Still quivering and whimpering, John turned his head towards the commotion, just in time to see Pendergast and Harold running to him, guns at the ready…

 


	6. I Will Hold Him Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finch and Pendergast come to John's rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a short chapter. 
> 
> It is here that our friends who did not want to read Chapter 5 can safely resume their reading. 
> 
> Some H/C in the aftermath of John’s session with Wesley

_Still trembling and whimpering, John turns his head towards the commotion in time to see Pendergast and Harold running to him, guns at the ready…_

He is too far gone to register the horrified look on Finch’s face but not enough to see that Pendergast, who has entered ahead of Finch because his legs allowed him to run faster, makes a sharp turn to run after Wesley but not before turning his eyes towards Finch. That leaves Harold to try to deal with his roiling emotions and untangle John from the table.  Trying not to look him in the eye, and not to look at his tall, spent body and the testimony of what happened, which is making a congealing pool on John’s stomach, Harold pushes and pulls at the ropes to no avail, a low litany of “oh, no, oh, no, oh, no” breathlessly on his lips.

Reese is still extremely tense, mortified, but he’s closed his eyes and seems to be going into himself. He looks almost catatonic, not even helping with his rescue which is taking forever.  Finally, after much prodding and pulling, Finch is able to manoeuver him around somewhat and slide his hand under his back where the rope has been coiled in something looking like a handle. He gives it a short snap and it comes undone. He then proceeds to unravel John’s prison, all the while feeling the heat of his friend, the trembling that has him almost vibrating under Harold’s questing fingers and the sweat that has pooled underneath him. He tries to work as quickly as the knotted ropes will allow, all the while desperately trying to locate John’s clothes with his eyes. He still is unable to look at John’s face, afraid of what he’ll see there, and not wanting to add to his friend’s discomfort. “You’re OK, now, you’re fine Mr. Reese. I’ve got you, you’ll be all right. I promise you. You’re safe.” Finch knows he’s babbling but the sound of his voice helps ground him in the big dark void that is the absence of any word coming from Reese.

But John does not utter a word. He is pliant under Finch’s ministration and when the ropes are almost completely gone, it is Finch who has to unfold his legs which, after ten hours in their folded position, cannot move on their own. He then leaves John there to look for his clothing which he finds a few feet away in a heap and runs as fast as his injuries will allow to help cover and dress his employee, using his undershirt to wipe the semen off his belly and his chest. “It’s all right Mr. Reese, here, I found your clothes and I’ll help you. That’s it, don’t worry, please, I have you now, I won’t let anyone else hurt you,” Finch continues on. He buttons Reese’s shirt, then his pants, puts his feet in his shoes and turns him around so he can get off the table. But John’s legs do not support him and he almost crumples to the floor. It is all that Harold can do to prop him up and it is how Pendergast finds them after having returned to the warehouse, Wesley’s trail having gone cold. “I’m sorry Harold, I lost him, he must have had a car there and he now has a good advance on us but we’ll get him some other way, I can assure you,” his voice seems to bring John back to the living. He tries to regain his balance, since the last thing he wants is to have that man pretend to help him. “Get me out of here now, Finch,” he growls through clenched teeth, but the effort to speak trips him and it is Pendergast who is there to catch him, putting a surprisingly strong arm under his waist and using his other hand to prop him up against him. John tries to move away, to no avail. Having had his arms tied up and immobilized for hours has rendered them useless. “Please, Finch…” the sound that comes out of Reese wrenches at Harold’s gut and he comes up to Aloysius’s side to gather John to himself. “Go get the car, my dear Aloysius, if you can, I’ll look after John myself,” his eyes imploring his friend to acquiesce and not say a word. 

“Can you hold him Harold?” asks Pendergast, concerned that the weight will prove too much for the older man. “I will hold him forever if it will make him better, Aloysius,” says Harold, his blue eyes haunted and his voice barely a whisper. His arms are trembling with the effort, but his feet are firmly planted on the ground.

While Pendergast is gone, Finch puts one hand to the nape of John’s neck, not moving, just holding and comforting. “John, can you talk to me? Just tell me if there’s anything I can or should do? Please, just say a word, I need to know if you’re OK”, says Finch, desperately. And where is Aloysius with the car, Finch feels he’s been gone forever, all he wants to do is leave this place, take John with him somewhere where the world will leave them alone and where his friend will be able to get back to his normal self.

As the car approaches, driven at warp speed by Pendergast who jumps out and runs to Harold to relieve him of his burden, he finally hears John’s low, defeated voice: “Take me home Finch, please!”

The two men fit John in the back of the car, Pendergast taking the wheel again and telling Harold to sit in the back with John. They leave and Harold gives Aloysius John’s address. Pendergast drives quickly but safely to their intended destination.

In the car, John starts slowly to come up a bit, looking around himself groggily and checking his head wound which is tender but hasn’t been bleeding for a few hours. He rubs at his reddened wrists and turns to look at Finch who is looking right back at him. Trying to bring up a crooked smile that never reaches his eyes, John adds:  “Come on, Finch, it’s not like it’s the end of the world, I mean I never came like that in my life, that’s got to count for something!”

“Mr. Reese, I fail to see how you can even begin to try and make light of the situation. That man violated you, used you as a plaything…” but Harold has to stop, his voice becoming shrill and sounding much more angry than he feels. Stress always has a way of making him strident and hurting John is the last thing he wants to do. “My apologies, John”, he adds, putting his hand lightly on John's thigh which he moves quickly away from Harold's touch. “I don’t fairly know how to deal with the situation”, his voice is breathless and his hands flutter aimlessly around John’s body, trying to smooth his clothing, arrange his hair and fix the car blanket he keeps in the car for cold evenings around John’s tall frame, all at the same time.

But Reese’s answer does not come as Pendergast has now parked the car in front of John’s loft. He walks around to the passenger door, opens it and bends to try and help Reese extricate his long frame from the car. But John turns his head and refuses to look at him, getting out by his own steam without even a word. Finch tries to follow, with difficulty. The emotions of the past few hours have taken their toll and he is in pain. His thigh and back throb from holding on to John and stress, which always gathers in his neck, is now making any movement excruciatingly painful. John has not waited for them; he is already in the loft. Seeing that his companions are not with him, he goes to the window in time to see Aloysius putting his arms around Harold as he’s finally come out of the car, rubbing his neck gently and bending his head close to Harold’s, whispering something.

And all of a sudden the rage that had been bottling up in the past ten hours comes to the surface. He bellows at the top of his lungs and grabs the first thing close at hand. A metal chair flies around the room and shatters against the brick wall, followed in quick order by Finch’s old computer, which he’d forgotten at John’s loft one night when they were researching a number and Finch had finally accepted one of John’s invitation for a home-cooked dinner, another chair, a pencil holder, and the desk itself which is upended as Reese kicks at it while still yelling non-stop. And all of a sudden it stops and John ambles quickly to the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

Aloysius is the first up the elevator, but when he sees what is happening, he does not go in. He’s seen the anger in Reese’s glacial features when he came out of the car and it dawns on him that John probably holds him responsible for the whole situation.  He waits for Harold to catch up with him. “Go to him, Harold, he needs you. Please do not let his anger push you away, and I know that is exactly what he will try to do! I will go back home for tonight, but call me tomorrow morning and let me know what happened. Do not, I repeat, do not leave him alone. Knowing how emotionally withdrawn men like him react, I am certain that when he comes down he will want to brush it under the carpet and never mention it again. Be there for him, Harold, and please let some of the sweetness that was you when you were in New Orleans come through for him. I find it strange, my dear, that you should be so curt and so cutting with him. Almost as if you are somehow angry or irritated by him. Why do you think that is?”

“Aloysius, I don’t think now’s the time to discuss my working relationship with my employee, if that’s all the same to you,” says Finch frostily, but as soon as the words leave his mouth, and under the loving gaze of his friend, the words die down and he is left with nothing more than an aching heart and an immense sadness. “I don’t know, Aloysius, I am at a loss as to how to deal with this situation. He means so much to me, and despite all my promises to myself that I would never again get close to anyone, I seem to have done it again. I keep losing people, Aloysius, and I don't want to do so anymore, and I don't want anything to happen to him. I am angry at myself that I could not keep my emotions in check, so I keep pushing him away. It’s almost as if I enjoy punishing myself by rejecting him, and sometimes, I am ashamed to say, in the most unpleasant fashion.  And now this… I’m heartbroken and I’m afraid that this may very well change our relationship. He is a very proud man, and when it dawns on him that I saw him at his most vulnerable, I’m concerned that what we had will never be the same, and that what I would so dearly want us to have, will now never happen.”

Aloysius squeezes Harold’s arm and simply says “Go, Harold,” and just as quickly as he had gone up the stairs earlier, he is leaving, not turning back and making his way into the city. And Harold turns on his heels and makes his way to the bathroom where he can hear the shower going full blast. He stays there, he will wait, and he will say the words that need to be said so that this dear friend of his, who has become so much more, will come out of that dark place where, he feels, he has sent him.


	7. Against My Better Judgment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold comforts John, makes a confession and they go on from there. I suck at summaries!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrapping things up with the ‘comfort’ part of the h/c tag… trying to not be too saccharine sweet – I think I do raunch better than I do sweet, but we’ll see…
> 
> Oh and on another note – there will be an optional epilogue at chapter 8, in which Wesley’s makes an appearance over the phone – a bit smutty, unfortunately (ha!) so you’re warned again… don’t like… don’t read as they say! Let’s just say our Mr. Reese is a wicked, wicked boy sometimes when it’s dark and nobody’s there to see it!
> 
> That will complete this arc – will probably move to a few very, very sweet, loving, established relationship “interludes” for the next few stories, just to try a new style of writing

 

Eventually the shower stops running and Finch hears rummaging behind the closed door.

He’s caught between waiting at the door, wanting to help and wishing to return to the living room so as not to crowd John. As the door begins to open, he’s stuck there, with his hand hovering above the doorknob, a naked Reese coming out.  Again, he is overwhelmed by the almost animalistic grace of his friend who cocks his head so Harold can back up and he can get out of the bathroom.

“Mr. Reese, don’t you want to get dressed,” Finches gestures uselessly with his hands in front of John.

“Come on Finch, don’t pretend like it’s not anything you haven’t seen before, especially now!” says John in a dry tone, as he walks in front of Finch and moves to the closet. Harold can’t do more than watch him go helplessly. Reese picks up an old pair of black sweatpants; they ride very low on his hips and the fine line of black hairs running down from his navel acts as a magnet for Finch’s eyes. He also notices that John walks with a particular swagger, as though he’s trying to pre-empt any attempt at a rapprochement.

“Finch! Finch, come on, snap to it! Eyes on the prize here!” says John snapping his fingers in front of Harold’s face. “Didn’t you hear me? I’m going to order something to eat, do you want anything?”

“Whatever you order, John, I’m not really hungry,” says Finch now trying to look anywhere but at John.  While John moves to make the call, Harold starts to set about restoring some order to the room where bits and pieces of chairs and computers litter the floor.

“For fuck’s sake Finch, can’t you stop hovering! Leave that – it’ll keep! Really!” yells John, suddenly, after having closed his phone, and Harold turns to see him coming full speed at him. He can’t help but be afraid, and his breath catches in his throat. He remembers their first meeting, but makes a tremendous effort to stay still and not move. John stops a mere inch from him, and Harold can smell the shampoo and the soap on him.  He sees small droplets of water clinging to his skin, one almost dropping off a brown nipple which is almost level with his eyes. It takes all his strength not to bend and attach his mouth to it. He finds himself amazed at being so aroused. He can feel the heat and the anger reverberating off John, and sees his chest move with each intake of breath. Forcing himself to remain calm, he does the only thing he can think of, puts his hands on Reese’s arms, just above his elbows, and looks him in the eye.

“Oh, John, I’m so, so sorry! It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t sent you there, none of this would have happened.” Harold brings a hand gently and tries to cup John’s cheek, but he turns away: “Harold, I can take just about anything but not your pity! Don’t look at me like that. I’m sorry I yelled at you – I’m so frustrated and angry at having been made like an amateur. And all for what? For a stupid book! Well, at least you got to reconnect with your very good friend Mr. Pendergast, I mean, who knows, he’s an FBI agent, I’m sure he’d be able to help you a lot with the numbers, no? Because frankly, I think I’ve just about had it with this whole fucking mess…”

Those words, though painful to hear, propel Harold to take John by the arm gently, “Come, sit with me, I need to talk to you,” he says, and John lets himself be carried to the leather sofa. He’s always been so good at taking orders and at making abstraction of his own wants and needs that this is just a bit more of the same.  He sits beside Harold as if he’s too tall… all knees, forearms and angles, like a gangly adolescent with a broken heart. He looks at Harold with those sad eyes of his and Harold cannot help but put both his hands on his chest, hearing the strong beat of the heart of that man he loves so much and is so afraid to lose.

“I will tell you something now, which I had promised myself I would never do.  I am doing this against my better judgment, and if it hadn’t been for Aloysius, who made me promise to do so, I would have kept my own counsel…” says Harold, removing his hands from John’s chest to take the hand that’s closest to him with his own two hands.  He takes a bit of time to gather his thoughts, all the while caressing John’s hand, the long fingers, the calloused pads there he holds his guns, the soft palm, the surprisingly fine wrist. As Harold runs a finger on the inside of his wrist, John’s hand clenches and he is brought back to Wesley’s comments about erogenous zones. His breath hitches and he blushes, turning his face from Harold to look out the window instead.

“Don’t close yourself off from me John,” says Harold, a bit desperately. “I noticed how you removed your thigh when I absentmindedly went to put my hand on it in the car, and now this. You can talk about…”

“Finch, for God’s sake, come on! I’m not a girl, I don’t need to “talk about it” and air my feelings and whatever else! Like I told you…”

“Mr. Reese” Harold’s voice comes up, angry, a bit shrill and cutting like only he can make it sound. “I refuse to hear your excuses and I don’t ever want to hear you brag about the fact that this was the best sex you’ve ever had. I just can’t believe you sometimes. Are you this closed off and this removed from normal relationships that you can’t recognize…” but Harold’s voice trails off when he sees the harrowing look in John’s eyes at his accusations of being almost inhuman. John doesn’t remember ever feeling so heartbroken in his life and to him, that feels almost too human, and certainly too painful.

“Oh, John”, is all Harold says, opening his arms and gathering the tall man, moving himself backwards so John can be almost cradled there. His hands move up and down John’s back, and he absentmindedly kisses his temple, the side of his eye, the corner of his mouth and he hears John sigh and loosen up, moving his own arms around Harold’s waist.

“Harold…” is all John lets out, accepting Harold’s tenderness and letting it fill his heart.

“This is what I needed to tell you John,” says Harold. “I had promised myself that I would never let myself fall again, for anyone, man or woman. I have lost many people in my life and I felt like closing myself off was the only way I would escape the pain of losing someone else. But your words, just now, prompted me to tell you how I feel. I love you John, with all my heart. I know you may never reciprocate those feelings, and I understand, but at least now you know. And please do not be too harsh on Aloysius…”

Harold can feel John tense up at the mention of his friend and he kisses John’s neck when he feels it. “He is a good man, John, and a good friend. What we did have happened a long time ago and there is no way that I could even begin to think of rekindling something with him. We have gone our separate way, and between you and me, he was the one who prompted me to speak to you.  You see, he noticed the way I looked at you at the restaurant, unbeknownst to myself… I thought I was being so opaque when in fact, I was totally transparent. It may be because he knows me so well. He also made me realize that I have not always been open and welcoming with you, and that I have sometimes been something of a despot, for which I now want to apologize profusely.

  “And he told me something else, John…”

“Hmmm?”, murmurs John in a low, tired voice, turning his head to reposition it in the crook of Harold’s neck where he can smell everything that makes Harold Finch, a mixture of cashmere, fine tea, leather and Monsieur André, his favourite cologne with its hint of citrus and verbena.

 “He said that he was pretty sure you felt the same way…” says Finch, unable to add another word.

A few seconds later, the silence stretching over what Finch feels is eternity, John lifts his head, looks at him with an indefinable longing and lets his lips meet Harold’s in a kiss that is so tender and so sweet that Harold, closing eyes, feels his heart about to burst. “I love you…” says John, shyly, “I really, really do,” and sighing, he brings his head down again in the crook of Finch’s neck where he promptly falls asleep. Harold follows him a few seconds later, a smile tilting a corner of his lips.

**

Two weeks later:

“Hey Harold,” says John, as they are having a breakfast of tea, coffee and bagels and lox in the library, waiting for a new number, “did you see that?”

“Well, John, why do I feel you’re going to tell me because frankly, I haven’t yet learned to read your mind?” says Finch a smile appearing on his face as Reese is rolling his eyes.

“Let me read this to you from the morning paper: A generous benefactor has bequeathed a copy of the Audubon double elephant folio which had been acquired from the Pendergast collection, to the New York Library in order that the general public may have the opportunity to see this wonderful masterpiece.” How about that! Good thing there are still billionaire benefactors hanging around this city, isn’t it?”

“Yes Mr. Reese, it’s a good thing! I wonder who could have done that!” Harold says, quirking his eyebrow at John… “I’m sure he’s a very private man who wouldn’t want his secrets to be known! Let’s try to keep it at that shall we?” he adds with a smirk.


	8. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Late one night, the phone rings in John's loft...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: well, light smut here again… it’s a stand-alone story really, can be read after Against My Better Judgment.
> 
> Alistair Wesley gets to play with our Mr. Reese again, at a distance, but with his consent this time… he can be a wicked boy our John sometimes, especially late at night when it’s dark and nobody can hear…
> 
> So anyone who does not like boy on boy play, please give it a pass.
> 
> However, this one’s only a fleeting glance for us, and we’ll let the boys play on their own.
> 
> There may be a second epilogue, where Mr. Finch finds out and decides to take matters… into his own hands shall we say! 
> 
> I’m still debating whether to do it or not. Mr. Finch is after me to do it since he’d dearly love to have a go at this kind of games, even if just to make John so happy. Besides, he’s not too happy that Wesley’s has been at his John again (he can be a bit jealous like that…)

Midnight. The heat is oppressive for early fall, more like the height of summer, but John does not want to open the air conditioning. He loves going to sleep with the city’s noise and smells. He came out of the shower a few minutes ago and now he’s in bed, just barely covered by a flimsy sheet.  Also just finished speaking with Finch, recapping the adventures of the day’s number, and is saying goodnight when the phone rings.

“Phone, Finch, gotta go,” and he opens the phone before closing the comm link. Finch is curious, but he hears the link go down after the word “Mister”, the tone of voice slightly familiar, but he can’t place it. So he closes his end and decides to have a cup of tea before going to bed.

In John’s loft, the voice at the other end of the line says “Mister Reese,”. And with those two words, John’s world tilts on its axis and he is brought back to a warehouse, a few weeks ago. He immediately secures off the comm link and says “You! How dare you call…”

But he’s cut off by the honeyed voice of Alistair Wesley: “Haven’t you missed me, Mr. Reese? In the deepest recesses of your belly, when your dick hardens and you can’t get at it just yet, don’t you sometimes wonder where I am? Wouldn’t you like me to scratch your itch some more, Mr. Reese? Your friend there, the one with the limp… does he really give you what you crave? Has he heard you moan and sob like I have when you’re in the throes of that deep pulsating need? Has he seen the muscles of your belly quake in those last few seconds before the white, blinding light of your orgasm -- when you’re finally allowed to have it? Has he seen your voice become soft and needy, your eyes beseeching when you plead for your release? Does he know how far he could go with you, at which length you are ready to submit to him?”

“Shut up, you bastard,” Reese is incensed Wesley’s words and at his nerve. How dare he call him after everything that happened…

“See Mr. Reese, I am a generous soul and even though I am far away, I thought I’d call to spend some time with you, get reacquainted, if you will.”

John is breathing hard, trying not to let Wesley get to him, not to let his mind go back to that fateful day.

 “Mr. Reese, in the darkest night, who would know or care how you get your kinks? I mean it’s not as if I would tell anyone, and I’m sure you wouldn’t either now, would you? We will have so much fun tonight. I know the weather in New York is unseasonably warm. I imagine you there, hot, sweaty, naked, bored. You know I can entertain you, Mr. Reese. I will show you how to do this thing on your own, how to bring yourself to that shattering orgasm you need so much, and then you’ll be able to do it as often as you want. But every time you do, you will be thinking of me!” adds Wesley, and John can feel the man’s satisfaction in his words.

John is almost already hard, a deep spike of arousal cresting in his lower belly, making his toes curl and his breath hitch.

His face burning despite the fact that the room is totally dark, he removes the ear bud, just in case, and drops it in the glass of water he usually keeps by the bed. His hand trembles as he does so but the last thing he'd want would be to accidentally open it and let... Oh, Finch! his mind supplies, but he doesn't let himself go there. The need has been aroused in him and it will need to be assuaged before the night is out.

“Do you want this, Mr. Reese? Tell me? You know I won’t do anything to you that you don’t want, so you have to tell me. You have to ask, no, you have to beg for it.”

And John, almost against his will, lets a soft “Yes,” escape his trembling lips.

“Yes, what, Mr. Reese?”

“Yes I, I w…want t…this, please!” he adds, shamefaced, humiliated but so, so hot for it and yet... He is going almost against his will.

“Now, Mr. Reese, put me on speaker phone, you will need to have both hands free for this,” says Wesley in his deep voice that resonates so hard with John whose mind keeps going back to their previous encounter. He is horrified to realize that he has indeed thought about it, maybe even dreamt about it once or twice, comfortingly describing those dreams as nightmares and ascribing them to the trauma of the experience that was forced upon him.

John obeys, puts the phone on speaker phone, brings up the sound and lays back on the bed, kicking the sheet off with his feet, his hips stuttering against his right hand which grabs his balls to pull them low. “That’s it Mr. Reese, now you’ll be able to hear me perfectly well, and I will be able to hear you too. I want you to assume the position, Mr. Reese,” Wesley lets his voice trail as John brings his legs up, folds his knees and lets his long legs fall on either side of him, his left hand gently cradling his erect cock, one finger lightly teasing the head of his impossibly hard dick.

And closing his eyes, John lets a whimper escape. Thrilled despite himself, he lets himself be carried away on Wesley’s silver tongue.


	9. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of John's abduction by Alistair Wesley, John finally unravels the twisted coil of his heart and has his day of reckoning, Harold removes Wesley from the equation and starts rebuilding his relationship with John (I suck at summaries, really!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well this thing turned into a big opus after having started as a fun romp in the park... go figure! Heavy on angst, light on smut (but it's there). More a head trip than anything else. Done at Mr. Finch's request because things needed to be said, and explained. One last chapter to come, in which our boys finally both get what they want and need.
> 
> Oh, and lest I forget, a million heartfelt thank yous to my dear beta, Blue Finch, who did a bang up job - with her great suggestions, clarifications and eagle eye for my silly typos and bouts of British spelling (I know I read too much Brit lit... and Canadian spelling is six of one and half-a-dozen of the other)... and she's right, of course, John repeatedly losing his ear bud is a big cry for help ;o)))

 

It’s eleven o’clock on a dreary, windy, Sunday morning in late fall.

Finch is sitting at his desk, bristling with anger, and his face is frozen with an unhappy scowl when John ambles in the library with the swagger he seems to have developed recently. His face set in a closed mask, John barely mutters a brief “Morning, Finch, any number?” and adds, almost as an afterthought: “I’ll need a new ear bud, by the way.”

A muscle twitches at Finch’s jaw before his steely voice can be heard. “Again, Mr. Reese, really? It’s what now, the fourth Sunday morning in a row that you come to the library asking for a new ear bud. Do you eat them? I don’t know what you do during your Saturday evenings when you’re not working but I’m starting to wonder if I should be concerned. Add to that the fact that you look like you’ve shaved with a garden rake and that the circles under your eyes look like the fifth circle of Hell, or is it the second, and it does not paint a pretty picture, I must say!  Is there anything I should know, Mr. Reese? Would you care to enlighten me?”

What sounds like a low growl comes out of Reese’s mouth, prompting Harold to look his way, waiting for an answer which does not come.

“Well,” he sniffs summarily, “I guess I’ll have to start ordering them by the boxful! And no, Mr. Reese, we do not have a number just yet so you can go do whatever you want to. Here’s a new ear bud – try not to lose it, if at all possible? I’ll contact you when I need you. A bit of undisturbed sleep might not come amiss I should think,” he adds, almost as an afterthought and looking pointedly at his employee who turns on his heels and leaves the library without adding a word.  But John has seen Finch’s last look and he has heard the innuendo in those few words.

Alone in the library, Harold ponders how a relationship that had been working so well for a while, and had given him hopes of developing into so much more, could have turned sour and become such a mess in a few short weeks.

Silence seems to have turned to resentment and now to outright anger and it now feels that they can barely suffer to be in the same room together. Of course, the discovery he made the night before has not helped matters and he now wonders if the relationship, even the employer-employee relationship, is at all salvageable. He sighs, profoundly saddened, and tries to not let the anger, which threatened to swallow him last night, take hold of him again.

**

_(Five to midnight, the night before – John’s loft)_

_For the fourth Saturday in a row, John is lying in bed, naked, aroused, and waiting for the call that he knows will trip his heart while bringing him down into the depths of despair. The room is dark, he has removed the battery from his regular cell and has set the burner phone on his night table on speaker phone._

_He had promised himself last week that it would be the last time he indulged in this manner, but his resolve has melted, like it did the two Saturdays before. Almost vibrating with anticipation, he finds that he can barely breathe._

_In the few minutes he has remaining before Wesley’s voice enters his head and his body, thoughts of Finch pop up his mind but he shuts them down. Dwelling on the situation would do no good, nor would talking about it or examining it too closely, so he pushes it out of his mind. He’s already gotten rid of the ear bud, squashing it under his heel this time – he’s becoming more brazen and he wonders fleetingly what excuse he will give Finch tomorrow. And he does not ask himself why he’s gone back to referring to him as Finch rather than Harold. He does not want to think that far._

_His hand is poised over the phone as it purrs. His eyes are dead and his voice breathless as he answers…_

_(Ten to midnight, the same night – Harold’s penthouse apartment on the Upper East Side)_

_A horribly painful crunching sound reverberates in Finch’s ear as he’s about to call John to ask him about the conversation Reese had had earlier in the day with the sister of their current number. The woman had called John back to provide him with what she felt would bring insight in her adoptive brother’s upbringing in a series of foster homes and help track him down._

_“Mr. Reese! Mr. Reese, are you OK?” a concerned Finch asks while wondering what might have happened._

_But with no answer forthcoming, he looks around for his cell phone. He knows John is in his loft because he could hear him puttering around barely fifteen minutes before, coming out of the shower, then opening what sounded like a beer. But there is no answer on the cell phone either. In fact, the phone does not even engage – it looks as if John has removed the battery._

_Their relationship was strained since John had been released from Alistair Wesley’s clutches, and Finch was sure it was his fault. By confessing to John that he loved him, he was sure he’d made the tall man uncomfortable, especially after his ordeal, and John had probably felt he should reciprocate, telling Harold he loved him too. Finch was sure he had done so because he did not want to lose his job or out of a misplaced sense of loyalty to his boss._

_At the moment Finch had been overjoyed, his mind filling with visions of mad, passionate love-making, tender and romantic encounters, and a bond that would deepen as years went on. But nothing like that had happened._

_John had awakened a few hours later, still in Finch’s embrace, had disentangled himself, awakening Harold at the same time, and had looked at him with such an expression of loathing and disgust that Harold thought he had better flee as quickly as possible._

_He’d made his apologies, and gone home, heartbroken and ashamed for having let himself believe that there might be a joint future for the two of them. Never once did he think that this look of revulsion was not directed at him but at John himself._

_He made his way to his penthouse, all the way berating himself for falling for John and opening himself, yet again, to being hurt. His resolve strengthened, he had since retracted even deeper within his shell._

_Shaking himself to come back to the present, Harold was now eaten by curiosity. Why would John, with whom he had been in such close contact before, not want to talk to him? Was he expecting company? He did not see why John would bother cutting himself off; closing the comm link would have been enough to advertise to Finch that he needed his privacy…_

_Was he involved in something more serious? Had the CIA been trying to recruit him anew? But Harold refused to even go there. Though he now felt he needed an answer. After all, John was his employee, his asset, and he had to be able to find him at all times._

_So he resorted to a stratagem he had promised himself he would never use.  Typing a few commands on one his keyboard, he logged on to a miniature camera and microphone he had had installed in the months before he had gifted the loft to John and thought he might have used it to house numbers in transit when he needed additional information from them. He had never used it since giving John the loft._

_It took a few seconds for the two machines to engage after having been out of commission for many months, but eventually he had clear sound (he could even hear John’s breathing) even if the quality of the image was poor since the loft was in almost total darkness. Harold, who normally slept with a night light on, reminded himself that John, with his training, could probably almost see in the dark.  The bedroom was very quiet and Harold felt he had to be careful not to make any sound._

_Ascribing the lack of communication to some glitch in the system, Finch was about to log out when the phone in John’s bedroom rang, scaring him half out of his wits. Holding his breath, he decided to stay on the line…_

_“H…hello,” said John, as he palmed his erect cock. Seeing John touching himself like that had been extremely arousing for Harold but now he dreaded to hear who was at the other end of the line._

_“John,” drawled Wesley’s voice, “I see you were expecting my call, that’s very good!”_

_Harold drew in a ragged breath. He could not believe that the man who had abused his employee would be calling him, and that John appeared to have been waiting for the call and was now caressing himself. He resolved to stay on the line and see where the conversation would go._

_“Are you hard for me, John?”_

_Harold was horrified when he recognized the voice of Alistair Wesley. He had to physically restrain himself as his rage was boiling within him. How could John subject himself to this, how could he let this man who had abused him keep on calling him, how could John get aroused by that cold, impersonal voice when he had looked so disgusted at waking up in Harold’s arms, when all Harold wanted to do was to love him and offer comfort?_

_This went on for an hour. The almost hypnotic quality of Wesley’s voice, and John’s meek acquiescence was almost surreal. The moans and whimpers coming from John’s bedroom made Harold so uncomfortable because of the searing sexual heat and the need he could hear in John’s voice. But how could John let himself be used repeatedly like this, and by that sadistic man who seemed to enjoy belittling him. Were those demeaning games the only way John could let himself enjoy sex? Did he actively seek such debasement? Harold was outraged at the gall of the man who tormented John. He was angry at himself for being unable to do anything and for the low-grade sexual tension he felt within himself which his rage kept from blossoming at what amounted to the verbal rape of his friend._

_Harold was at a loss – such depths of depravation were beyond him and he wondered how he would be able to ever look into John’s eyes again without letting it show that he knew._

_A plan started to form in Finch’s mind, one that would finally remove Wesley from the equation, give John what he appeared to need, and maybe salvage the relationship he had with his friend and employee._

**

(Today)

Restless, John does not know where to go upon leaving the library. Finch’s look, and his words have thrown him for a loop. He crosses over to Central Park and finds an unoccupied park bench. Hands in the pockets of his overcoat, he feels almost like he is about to start hyperventilating.

The last thing he wants to do is examine the events of the past few months but he realizes that trying to make abstraction of everything that has happened has not worked at all and like scratching at a barely scabbed-over wound, he ventures gingerly into himself.

He knows that his relationship to sex has always been fraught with pitfalls. His extremely strict religious upbringing always made him see sex as an abomination. Cold baths, rosaries and exercise were the regimen at the academy he went to as a boy, and hormonal surges were dealt with swiftly and uncomfortably.

Add to that his almost painful shyness, and an attraction to boys which was seen as degenerate and mortally sinful, and the young man who entered the army was fit to become the one on whom all the usual, stupid and tasteless jokes and pranks would be played.

His first sexual encounter had been with a prostitute in a rundown bordello in a little East-European town with a bunch of guys from his platoon. The woman was scrawny and none too clean, and he could not rise to the occasion but it had been the thing pretend to have done, and to brag about.

Coming back to their tent, the sergeant had been incensed that his troops had left the barracks unattended. Tall, big, loud and obnoxious but with a rock-hard body and a steely voice that broke no rebuttal, he’d confronted John near the latrines later on.

He’d grabbed his dick and had pinned him face against the wall and humped him, to show him, he’d said, how it was done. His hand had not stopped squeezing him all along, and mortified, John had come in his pants after a searing bolt of pleasure had coursed through him. The other man knew, of course, and he had seemed very proud of himself. John had put in for a transfer immediately, but it had not come through before he had been mercilessly bullied about it.

That encounter had made him leery of men – their attraction had been too strong, as had his need to submit to them. The army had bred into him the notion of obedience, to the detriment of everything else, even his own life, and that too had fed his need.

Jessica had been his escape route and he had tried so hard to be the good boyfriend, the respectful man who did not push or prod to have the relationship consummated, who would wait for her for as long as she wanted to.

Their lovemaking, when it had happened, had been uninspired but he was so grateful that he, at least, could perform almost normally, that he had mistaken this for love and would have continued on like that, weary of making waves for as long as it was available to him.

Who cared if his nights were spent dreaming of strong, willful men who left him spent when he woke in the morning, ashamed but sated. You could not help what you dreamed of, could you?

And so when Wesley’s episode had occurred, John for once could let his fantasies take their course. For the first time in his life, he could relinquish control, revel in being at the mercy of someone who could bend him to his will while not having to think for himself and make decisions. The moment was seared into his psyche and he felt as if he had sprung alive on that day.

When the first call came a few weeks later, he was almost delirious with need and it was why he had been unable to resist that siren’s call.

This brought him to Finch. Finch who meant so much to him but who, he felt, would be disgusted by his proclivities. Finch who was so rigid in his thinking, so quick to take offense for what he felt was beyond the pale; Finch who had never hinted at anything of a sexual nature, who appeared offended by even the slightest attempt at flirting, who seemed to regard prurience as a strange but inevitable behaviour of his fellow men but who would never partake of anything so base.

John had almost quit his job rather than having to be subjected to what he felt was Finch’s pity. He could barely bring himself to recall how he had left his guard down and let Harold hold him, in the loft on that fateful day when he and Pendergast had rescued him. Harold, feeling sorry for him, had even pretended to be in love with him because he had probably seen how John felt about him. Harold could never love someone like him, someone who was so broken that he needed to be dominated, who took his pleasure in secret, in the dark, with the man who’d violated him. Nobody would ever understand, least of all Finch. So John had pretended not to care, had hinted at other relationships and adventures, had closed himself off from Harold to the point that now, he felt they had no true communication at all: John talking in growls and grunts, Finch making himself dizzy by talking too much.

John felt goose bumps along the back of his neck and realized that he’d been sitting in the park for over two hours. Light was waning and it was getting cold. Maybe Harold was right, maybe he did need to get some sleep. He got up slowly, achingly, as though he was much older than he really was, and made his way to his loft.

**

(One week later, at five to midnight on the Saturday evening)

John knows the drill. He is ready, in bed, waiting for Wesley’s call when a peremptory knock comes at the door. His instincts tell him not to answer but years of conditioning have him up in a few seconds, his Glock in his hand but naked as the day he was born.

He stealthily goes to the door, puts his hand on the handle and when another knock resounds loudly, he opens it quickly… to see Harold standing there, in his dark grey three-piece suit, a bright red cashmere scarf warmly wrapped around his neck, a small suitcase in his hand. Reese is so dumbfounded that he is unable to say a word and Harold whooshes him with his hands so John has no other course of action than to back away and let him in.

“Go back to bed Mr. Reese,” says Finch, adding a curt but loud “Now!” while closing the door.

John is still undecided so Harold pushes him gently but securely to the bed where John sits without uttering a single word.

Harold makes a display of looking at his watch and at John, who lowers his head and looks at the floor, one hand bunching the sheet between his fingers.

“And now we wait, don’t we, Mr. Reese?” says Finch and almost immediately, the phone starts ringing.

Looking at John, he picks it up and says, in a voice that sends shivers down John’s spine, “This little game ends right here Mr. Wesley – do not try to contact this number ever again or you will wish you had never even been born – and do not test me, you would not like the results. I am not as highly born and well-bred as my friend Mr. Pendergast. I will tear out your throat with my bare hands, feed your balls to my dog and throw your sorry carcass in the Hudson River if you ever try to approach my employee again,” adds Harold before dropping the cell phone on the floor and crushing it loudly under his foot.

“Well, I trust that takes care of that, don’t you think, Mr. Reese?” but he does not wait for an answer as he has already turned his back to John and is in the process of taking off his scarf, his jacket and his vest. 

“You’re still upright Mr. Reese,” he adds, his rigid back still to John.

 “Are you deaf or are you just trying to test my resolve, and yours? I would strongly advise against it. When I said I wanted you in bed, I meant lying down, on your back. If I’d have wanted you sitting down, I’d have pointed you to a chair…” says Finch as he slowly takes off his cufflinks and starts rolling his sleeves, now turning to face his employee.

He also opens the lights in the loft, throwing it in a bright but warm glow. “No more hiding in the dark, Mr. Reese. I want to see you enjoy yourself, and I want you to see me, see you enjoying yourself.” His blue eyes have an intensity that John has never seen, his mouth is pursed in a frown and the color is high on his cheeks.

Never limber, his movements are even stiffer than usual, and his arousal is plainly visible in the grey slacks that are obscenely distended at the front. He does not seem to mind it at all, bringing one hand to rub against it while looking at John levelly.

Two red spots appear on John’s cheeks as he closes his eyes.

“Open your eyes Mr. Reese,” says Finch, “I told you, no more hiding!”

The shock is still visible on John’s face. The dead, icy cold that laced Finch’s voice when he spoke to Wesley has now warmed and is on the verge of taking on that undefinable accent that brings back what John heard when Harold spoke with Aloysius… That dripping, honeyed voice, but laced with an almost unbearably hot, spicy undercurrent that reverberates deep in John’s groin and leaves a low heat simmering in his lower spine.

John is lying prone on the bed, arms at his sides, not daring to move. 

Finch puts the small suitcase by the bed, he will not get undressed – at least not now – in order to preserve John’s fantasy.

He approaches the bed, his arms crossed, and looks at John. “I will tell you this so you understand me clearly, and we will move on from there.”

Harold knows he is taking a gamble but he thinks that this may be the way for him to salvage what he has with John and to arrange it so that they can create from this situation, a relationship that will sustain them both.

“This is not my thing, John, but it is yours. I am not judging you, I have no right to do so. And if it is what you want, and need, I will give it to you since it is in my power to do so.”

“But know that I will be the only one to do so from now on. In this, you will answer to me as Mr. Reese, and you will do as I tell you. Do not think, for a moment, that Wesley is the only one who could give you what you crave. By taking on this role, I will bring you to a level of satisfaction that I am sure you don’t even know about.”

“You see, Mr. Reese, while Wesley played with you at arm’s length, I have no problem getting up close and personal with you.  You have barely scratched the surface of what is to come” at that, Finch glanced briefly at the suitcase, which brought John to look also, and to rapidly avert his eyes.

“In turn, I will ask you to meet me halfway and let John, the John I know and love, the sweet and gentle and loving man who is my friend, emerge more often. Maybe then we can both find a way to be satisfied with this relationship of ours.”

“But enough talk. For now, we have a man to satisfy and talking _ad nauseam_ is not going to do it.”

“Oh, and before we go any further, Mr. Reese, there is one thing you should know. While Alistair Wesley enjoyed making you squirm and kept you from attaining… the desired results, I have no such qualm – I plan to make you come so much and so often that you will be begging me to stop.”

“So, before we get to rev your engine Mr. Reese, have you anything to say?”

And all of a sudden, John is overwhelmed – overwhelmed with gratitude for Harold’s understanding, with love for this man who accepts him and loves him as he is, who will give him what he needs and will, in that way, be able to reassemble all the pieces of the puzzle that is John Reese and make a whole man out of him, a man who will be allowed to have his foibles, who will have his needs met and who will also be able to allow himself to love another.

He’s sitting up again, and rocks back and forth on himself. Too moved to talk, he takes Harold’s hands in his, kisses the palms, and puts them on his cheeks. “Thank you,” he says, finally, “for coming to get me. I was so lost I did not even know how to begin to crawl my way back up.”

Harold sits on the side of the bed, facing him, and putting his forehead against John’s, he says, “We’ll figure this thing out. And now, move, Mr. Reese, I haven’t got all day!” but when John looks at him, he sees a softness in Harold’s eyes, and he moves with alacrity to the middle of the bed in anticipation of what is to come.

“You are a sight to behold, aren’t you Mr. Reese?” says Harold.

 


	10. "Call me John"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which love reasserts itself and all is well that ends well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, last chapter in this long epic - John and Harold settle their differences, love reasserts itself and all is well that ends well.
> 
> I never thought this piece would end up being this long - it has now been put to bed and more adventures await our friends in separate adventures.
> 
> Mr. Finch wants me to do a crossover with The Sentinel and John, romantic that he is, wants more musical interludes. As for me, I'm not too sure but the muses (both the adventure muse and the smut muse) are frantically working on prompts so we'll see what comes up.
> 
> M/M – sex scene – do not read if it is not your thing.

 

_“You are quite a sight, aren’t you, Mr. Reese.”_

Finch undresses and kneels between Reese’s outstretched legs, watching him closely. “Show me, Mr. Reese, show me how he had you touch yourself, show me what makes you hard and brings you over the edge.” So he closes his eyes and starts… “Open your eyes, Mr. Reese! I will not tell you again!” says Finch in a velvet-over-steel voice. So he looks at Harold, who sees Reese’s breath hitch and his hand pull at his balls. Reese’s knees fold up and his hips lift off the bed. And, eyes boring in Finch’s own eyes, he starts jerking off at a rapid pace. Just as he appears to get close, Harold puts a hand on his knee and says “That’s enough now, Mr. Reese,” and he wails softly “Finch, come on!”

“Shhhh…,” says Finch, “I have something much better for you Mr. Reese. Move over on your hands and knees and scoot over to the side of the bed. As you know, my neck doesn’t allow me to bend for too long periods and I want to be comfortable…”

He obeys rapidly, moving to the side of the bed as Finch pushes his chest to the mattress, and his butt in the air so that all Finch has to do to reach him at the right height is to get on his knees. “Do not move, Mr. Reese, and do not touch yourself,” says Finch as he proceeds to gently lick him, from his perineum to his tailbone, making him hiss at the intrusion, opening him up with his hands as he does so. Sometimes he blows a trail of cool air that will make Reese’s skin break in goose bumps and the ever so fine hairs lining his butt stand on end. Other times he will let one hand trail underneath and cup Reese’s balls, pulling on them or rolling them gently between his fingers or taking one or the other in his mouth and sucking gently. His other hand will run the length of Reese’s cock, squeezing, teasing, making Reese’s hips stutter against his caressing hand.

He hears Reese’s intake of breath and feels him tremble, so he repeats his tongue’s ministrations many times, sometimes delving deeper and teasing the opening, until Reese’s head lifts off the bed and his hand, of its own volition, reaches for his dick. But Finch is faster and intercepts it in a vice-like grip.

“I said no, Mr. Reese,” says Finch patiently but in a non-equivocal manner, and Reese’s head desperately falls back on the mattress and he tries to fold his arm over his head. “And none of that hiding your face under your arm either, Mr. Reese!” And so he twines his hands in the sheet and he moans quietly while Finch continues to torment him ever so gently and maddeningly. “Arrghh, Finch, please, do something, you’ll make me come if you don’t stop… hmmm…” he sighs softly.

Eventually, when Reese is one hair’s breath away from losing it, Finch stops and has him move again to the middle of the bed, on his back. “Normally I would have you prepare yourself for me Mr. Reese. There is nothing I would enjoy more than to see your eyes flutter as you penetrate yourself with your own fingers, making yourself ready for my onslaught, but I don’t think you are in a state of mind to do so today, so for once, I will do it myself,” says Finch, slicking his two of his fingers and entering Reese ever so slowly but ruthlessly.

Reese winces at the intrusion but Finch sees that his dick is weeping steadily. “Have you any idea how hot and how beautiful you are Mr. Reese?” Reese averts his eyes and turns his head. He does not want to hear it. “Don’t be bashful, Mr. Reese, look at me,” he says again, forcing him to do so.

The man is truly a sight of beauty, eyes at half-mast, lower lip caught between his teeth, one of his hand roughly tweaking one of his nipples and the other hovering close to his dick but not daring to touch it. “Ohhh,” is all the Reese can articulate as his rock hard muscles appear frozen in place, “Ohhh, please please please” he continues his litany, as the pleasure builds within him with Finch rubbing his prostate.

And Finch knows exactly how to tease it to drive him to a fever pitch: when to brush it with feather-light touches, when to bump it and tickle it, when to press against it relentlessly, bringing all of Reese’s thoughts to concentrate on that ever-so-pleasurably heated spot deep within his belly.

And just as quickly as they had started their manipulations, Finch’s fingers are gone and he is slicking himself. Reese’s eyes follow Finch’s hand and he sees the angry-red shaft, pulsing with life, and he is suddenly scared. Finch is a surprisingly impressive man and Reese, for all his experience, has never…

Finch is almost lost in his preparations, his hand slicking his tool, getting himself ready. The blood rushes in his ears and he doesn’t hear Reese’s plea: “Finch, no, no Finch, I can’t… I don’t think… I…”

And as Finch starts to enter the deep burning cavern, the noise in his head blocking everything else, he is overwhelmed by a barrage of roiling emotions, pressing him onward against the barrier of Reese’s resisting flesh. He feels a deep lust and an overwhelming desire for this man splayed out beneath him, but also an all-encompassing rage at Wesley, a deep anger at Reese for letting himself be abused…and he starts pushing, blind and deaf to everything, until he hears his captive’s low, gruff and toneless voice: “You can hurt me, if you want Finch, you know you can, you can do whatever you want…”

And all of a sudden the switch is flipped and he is left there, hard, aching, at Reese’s entrance, but unable to move, looking at his twisted face, eyes firmly shut, chin trembling against the pain to come, and whimpering. That this man, almost invincible, so strong, such a force to be reckoned with should be reduced to an almost jittering mass of hysteria… Heart thudding, he swallows painfully and tries to find his voice. 

“Shhhh, it’s OK,” he tries to gentle his friend like one would do a frightened horse. Under him, Reese’s flanks are wet with sweat but his cock impossibly hard. Finch runs his hands tenderly on the inside of Reese’s shuddering thighs, and he says, softly, “I will understand if you do not want this, Mr. Reese, and I am sorry if I misunderstood you. I thought I was giving you what you wanted, what you needed from me.”

And so he tries to disentangle himself from Reese, but the other man immediately clenches his impossibly long legs around Finch’s hips and holds him in place. “Stay. Please stay, Harold. Don’t move, I need you…” Reese adds, and he opens his eyes. They are soft and clear, and Finch feels Reese truly sees him for the first time in weeks.

Reese then moves his folded legs forward to make Finch lower himself until he is lying over Reese who then wraps his arms around Finch and says, “I want you more now than I have ever wanted anything or anyone in my whole life, Harold,” and he proceeds to kiss Harold’s jaw, his eyelids, his neck, and finally his lips, in a searing kiss. “Love me, Harold, please love me… and call me John.” And releasing the breath he realizes he had been holding for so long, Harold does just that, with a tenderness that borders on reverence.

Harold starts kissing him, tracing his lips with his tongue, kissing the corner of his mouth, nipping at his lips and finally, feeling John’s mouth open under his, sucking on John’s tongue and feeling him shivering underneath him. John kisses like he does everything else: with a focus that nothing seems to be able to break. His long arms are wrapped around Harold's neck and both their hard cocks trapped between their overheated bodies. He feels Harold hump gently against him and he cannot help the growl that comes out of his mouth. Holding Harold’s head in one hand and his waist in the other, he flips them both so that he finds himself hovering over his lover.

Harold looks at him, amazed at how such a powerful man would be so gentle. John bends down and licks at Harold’s nipples, teasing them with his teeth, tormenting and licking in turn, holding both Harold’s hands in his. John runs a wet trail to the tip of Harold’s cock which twitches in anticipation. His tongue moving tentatively, he licks at the crown and the slit of Harold’s dick and Harold almost loses it then and there.

“Sit on it,” says Harold, his eyes burning in John’s eyes. “That way you can control the speed and the movement”, adds Harold, and John has a moment of hesitation at remembering the size of Harold’s cock which is now impossibly hard. Still slick from Harold’s earlier ministration, John gets on his knees, finds the bottle of lube and wets Harold’s dick completely.

Grabbing his own dick and jerking it a few times, he then takes his lover’s dick in his hand and positioning it at his entrance, he starts going down on his haunches, ever so slowly, hissing in discomfort and trembling with the effort. Harold rubs John’s thighs and caresses him, running his hand on the head of John’s dick, smearing the wetness he finds there, hearing John’s intake of breath. Trembling slightly, John keeps engulfing Harold, inch by inch until he can feel his Harold’s crinkly hairs and his meaty thighs under his own. Harold is sheathed to the hilt in the inferno that John has become.

Just thinking about it makes him so hot that he almost comes without moving but his dick then starts twitching, wrenching a sob from John who has both hands planted firmly on Harold’s belly and is holding himself in check, unable to breathe or move. John feels Harold’s heart beat in his dick which reverberates everywhere within him and Harold feels John’s pulse in the squeezing of his muscles around his dick. “Fuck me Harold,” says John, finally, in a low, gritty voice, eyes half-closed, a sheen of sweat all over his body. His back starts swaying wantonly back and forth as his hips start moving Harold’s dick inside him. “Fuck me now, and fuck me hard, please!” and his voice ends on a wail that goes straight to Harold’s dick. And his hips start moving up and down in a movement that he can barely control as John meets him halfway, the obscene sound of their flesh acting as a counterpoint to their moans. It goes on for a while but the end approaches way too soon.

And as they both near that instant where they will crest and crash together, they both try to hold back, to keep it from happening too soon, to preserve this first time forever so they can savour it a moment longer. But the white heat that blasts through them has them coming together, Harold shooting deep within his lover, John coming in Harold’s hands which he covers with his own, his come pulsing in long ropy strands that wrench a sigh with each jet. And John starts shivering as pleasure courses through him; it is almost unbearable and has nothing in common with his previous experiences, the intensity of it almost painful, starting deep within him and growing in waves after waves that make him fall, bonelessly, over Harold, still sighing and twitching a few minutes later. 

Harold has never come this hard in his life and his dick has now started softening but John’s muscles still clench around him and each contraction wrings a “ohhh” of delight out of him. He can barely catch his breath and when he feels John’s body fall over and connecting with his, he wraps one arm around John’s waist and runs a hand gently on his his lover’s head, his neck and his long back.

They slowly catch their breath and John lifts his head to look at Harold who smiles at him a bit smugly. John is back to his usual self and his smile is a bit shy, his eyes trying to sidle away from Harold’s, his cheeks still carrying the reddish hue of both pleasure and bashfulness.  “Look at me,” says Harold in an impossibly soft voice, and John does so after a bit of prodding. “Are we good?” he asks him, to which John, in a voice roughened by emotion, answers “Oh, yes, Harold, we’re very, very good!” finally smiling a real smile before letting his head fall in the crook of Harold’s neck, sighing happily.


End file.
